


Torquay Arms

by chasingriver



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, BDSM, Beach Sex, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Brotherly Love, Butt Plugs, Dom!Mycroft, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Play, Domestic Violence, Erotic Electrostimulation, Explicit Sexual Content, Flashbacks, Food Kink, Food Sex, Guilt, Human Furniture, Kid Mycroft, Kid Sherlock, Love Triangles, M/M, Multi, Mycroft and Sherlock run a BDSM B&B, Paddling, Pain, Painplay, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Prostate Massage, Prostate Milking, Public Sex, Riding Crop, Rimming, Rough Sex, S&M, Sex Toys, Sherlock is a Brat, Sibling Incest, Sibling Love, Spanking, Spitroasting, Sub!Mycroft, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M, Vibrators, dom!lestrade, slut!Sherlock, slut!lock, sub!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-19
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-03 21:49:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 37
Words: 90,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasingriver/pseuds/chasingriver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes runs an exclusive BDSM B&B. Sherlock is an amenity. Lestrade pays a visit. Set in an AU. Sherlock/Lestrade/Mycroft and permutations thereof.</p>
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  <p>    <img/><br/></p>
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            </blockquote>





	1. The Torquay Arms

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** sibling incest, domestic violence (chapter 16)
> 
> **Author's Note:** The first fifteen chapters of this are unabashed porn. At chapter 16, I delve into Sherlock and Mycroft's backstory, and the tone turns decidedly angsty. There's more porn later. And more angst. 
> 
> I always said I’d finish this, and I had every intention of doing so. But after season three, my interests changed and I expanded into other fandoms. I kept thinking, “At some point, maybe I’ll be able to finish it. Hopefully I’ll feel more motivated and other projects won’t take priority.” This has not happened. I’m sorry. 
> 
> I’ve cleaned up and expanded the chapters I hadn’t published (33 & 34), and what follows from there is a plot outline for the rest of the story (35 & 37), and one more chapter (36) in between the two outlines. I know it’s not the same as having a properly completed story, but at least you’ll know how it ended. It seemed like a realistic compromise. Thank you for all the lovely comments you’ve left over the years, and thank you for reading.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gregory Lestrade books a weekend at an exclusive B&B.

Gregory Lestrade smiled to himself as he sent his medical references to the exclusive Bed and Breakfast in Torquay. _Something interesting must be going on down there if I have to prove I'm clean before I can go._

His friend James had suggested it – raved about it, actually – but he'd merely smiled when asked what was so special about the place. "You'll see. Trust me, just go. The amenities are outstanding. You won't regret it."

_Amenities? Like shampoo?_

James was also a respected dominant, and Greg trusted his judgement.

"Take your toys."

"Oh. Ohhhh. Okay." He'd booked the appointment that afternoon, and he'd been looking forward to it for weeks.

He phoned to confirm his reservation, and the phone was answered by a refined, elegant voice.

"Good afternoon. The Torquay Arms, how may I help you?"

"Hello, Gregory Lestrade here. I'm supposed to have a reservation for this weekend."

"Of course, Mr Lestrade. We are eagerly anticipating your visit. Shall you be arriving by car or by train?"

"By car. I have the address."

"Very good. And will you still be joining us alone or will you be bringing a guest?"

"No, it's just me."

"Very good. I look forward to meeting you, Mr Lestrade. Good day."

"Um, good day."

Greg wasn't really used to the formal speech patterns, but he shrugged it off. He was used to getting his way, and class distinctions didn't make a lot of difference to him.

He drove down to Devon on Friday afternoon. He was glad to be out of London for a change. He liked the coast – there were fewer people and it was frequently sunny – more frequently than the rest of the country, at least. "England's Riviera." He wasn't sure how well it competed with France for hot sunny beaches, but that wasn't why he was here.

'The Torquay Arms' was a nicely appointed townhouse on Beacon Hill, overlooking the English Channel. Painted in a lovely light yellow, it practically glowed in the early evening sunlight.

He was greeted by a tall, elegant man in a three piece suit. "Mr Lestrade. It's such a pleasure to meet you at last. I'm Mycroft Holmes, proprietor of 'The Torquay Arms.' May I assist you with your luggage?"

"Thank you." Greg motioned towards a medium-sized suitcase in the boot. He didn't have many clothes, but his 'toy' collection took up a fair amount of space.

"As you may know, Mr Lestrade, we only host one guest or couple at a time. I, and my brother, will be happy to serve _all_ your needs for the entire visit."

Greg noted the odd inflection on the word 'all.' "Thank you, Mr Holmes." He paused. "Your brother?"

"Sherlock. My younger brother. You'll meet him very soon."

Greg wondered if Sherlock was the reason James had told him to bring his toys. Mycroft Holmes didn't seem like the submissive type – he certainly couldn't see him on his knees begging for release. Greg found him very attractive in an elegant, refined sort of way. An equal, perhaps… he didn't often play with other doms, but he certainly wasn't opposed to the idea. His thoughts were interrupted as Mycroft spoke again.

"Your suite is at the top of the stairs, Mr Lestrade."

"Here – I'll get the bag, thanks."

Mycroft gave a slight nod. "Please inform me if there's anything at all you _need_."

Again, that odd inflection.

The door at the top of the stairs opened into a spacious living room, decorated in light, muted tones. A comfortable looking sofa and chairs surrounded a low table. It was very refined and tasteful, but nothing out of the ordinary.

Greg slid back the rice paper shoji screens leading to the bedroom and involuntarily gasped. He wasn't sure which was more striking, the ocean view, the massive four poster bed, or the naked, collared, gagged, and _absolutely fucking exquisite_ specimen of a man kneeling on the floor in front of the bed.


	2. You Must Be Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gregory Lestrade meets Sherlock Holmes, the ultimate amenity.

_This must be Sherlock. Fucking hell. Now I see why James recommended this place._

There was a small metal tag attached to Sherlock's collar. Greg lifted it up to read it. 'Use me.'

_Amenities, indeed._

He stepped back to take in Sherlock's long, lean frame. His skin was pale, unmarked, and almost luminous. He had longish black curly hair, blue-grey eyes, and a lovely mouth. _It's obscene, stretched around that ball gag. Beautifully obscene._ A generously-sized cock lay half-hard on his thigh. _Clearly gets off on submission._

Greg undid the gag and pulled it from Sherlock's mouth. "You must be Sherlock."

A voice like dark chocolate and dripping with sarcasm replied, "Aren't you brilliant. How long did it take you to figure that out?"

"Oi, mouthy little bitch, aren't you? I can see why you were gagged. Does your brother know you're this rude to the guests?" He shoved the ball back into Sherlock's mouth and roughly refastened the buckle. "Stand up and turn around. Let me see the rest of you."

Sherlock stood and slowly turned towards the bed.

"Oh, very nice. Even better without the sarcasm." Greg ran his hand slowly over one magnificent arse cheek. Grabbing a fistful of dark curls, he pulled Sherlock's head back roughly and slapped his arse, hard.

The _amenity_ moaned around his ball gag.

"Oh, a submissive _and_ a pain slut, eh? I'm going to have fun with you. Kneel."

Sherlock knelt with his head bowed. Greg took in the rest of the room with interest. On further inspection, there were a few non-standard items of bedroom furniture. The most obvious was a metal cage in the corner - it looked like it would accommodate a person on their hands and knees. The bottom of the cage was open, and there were attachment points for cuffs at all four corners.

He investigated a large wooden wardrobe and found an impressive and neatly organised array of floggers, canes, crops, and paddles. There was a sizable collection of cuffs, ranging from metal to padded leather, and spreader bars of varying sizes. The drawers in the lower portion of the wardrobe contained a variety of sex toys, nipple clamps, hemp rope, medical supplies, enema equipment, and lubricant. Greg realised he could have left his own toys at home. He'd never seen a collection like this before.

One wall was partially covered by a large tapestry. It matched the decor of the room but seemed slighted slightly anachronistic. Peering behind it, he discovered two vertical rows of eye hooks securely fastened to the wall. _Ah. Attachment points for bondage. Very nice._ An image of Sherlock, limbs spread and attached by cuffs to the wall – with that plush arse, his for the taking – leapt into his mind and refused to leave.

He opened a door to reveal a cupboard. Along with the usual space to hang his clothing, it contained an interesting looking bondage chair and a padded sawhorse. Greg smiled and removed the sawhorse. That would come in handy shortly. Sherlock needed to be taught a lesson in manners.

A large copper soaking tub, a generously sized glassed-in shower, a toilet and a bidet made up the massive, slate-tiled bathroom. A large stack of fluffy, white towels rested on a small wooden stand.

"Well, with the exception of your atrocious manners, I must say, I'm quite impressed. Let's see if we can beat some decency into you, shall we?"

He set up the padded sawhorse on a towel in the large open area. He grabbed Sherlock's hair and pulled him to a standing position. "Alright you, over here." Pulling him over the sawhorse, he attached the cuffs on Sherlock's wrists and ankles to the snap hooks at the base of the saw-horse. "Oh, how lovely. It's been made just for you, hasn't it?" Sherlock was stretched taut over the device, his inviting arse just at the right height. Sherlock was fully hard now, his length pressing awkwardly against his leg.

"Let's see. What to do first? So many choices." Greg walked over to the wardrobe and selected a sturdy wooden paddle. "This should work."

Standing behind his new plaything, Greg let the paddle fly through the air. It landed with a satisfying 'crack' on Sherlock's generous arse. A muffled cry escaped from around the ball gag. Another swat, another cry. A third hit, and this time he heard a moan. _That's more like it._ "You're a little pain slut, aren't you?"

Sherlock nodded.

A quick series of hard slaps brought a lovely shade of red to the cream-coloured surface of his arse. There were no cries now, only muffled moans of pleasure. Greg had long ceased to be an dispassionate observer. He was rampantly hard and rutted, fully clothed, against Sherlock's tender arse.

He laughed. "I don't know what I'm waiting for, there's already an engraved invitation on your collar." He took off his trousers and pants, placing them on the bed. Grabbing some lube from one of the drawers, he slicked up a couple fingers and plunged them, without warning, into Sherlock's arse.

Sherlock pressed back against them, as much as his bondage would allow.

"You're already nice and lubed up – all cleaned out and prepared for me, eh? How thoughtful. Tell me, does your brother prepare you for his guests, or does he make you do it yourself? Oh right, your pretty little mouth is full at the moment. What a shame. I'll have to ask him myself."

Greg pulled out his fingers and added another before plunging them into the second knuckle.

"You're lovely and loose already. Does he keep you plugged when you're not serving the guests? I know I would – one of those nice heavy steel plugs I saw in the drawer over there. I love using those on a sub. The weight means you can't forget it's there."

He looked appreciatively at Sherlock's reddened arse. "I think you're ready enough. I like it a bit rough myself."

Using one hand to steady himself, he lined up the head of his huge cock against Sherlock's entrance. Grabbing the sawhorse, he forced his way into Sherlock in one hard thrust.

Sherlock made a delicious noise that hovered somewhere between lust and pain.

"Fuck, you're tight. I think I'll do that again." Greg pulled all the way out, teased his entrance with his cock for a second, and thrust back in again. "Oh, that's nice."

Without giving Sherlock any time to adjust, he started fucking him at a punishing pace. This wasn't about maximising Sherlock's pleasure – he had no intention of letting him come at all – Greg just wanted to take the edge off his own need. The sight of Sherlock's lithe body just fuelled his lust. He dug his fingers hard into Sherlock's thigh, knowing it would leave bruises on his pale skin. It wasn't long before he felt his own body tense as he shot his load deep inside Sherlock's arse. He groaned in relief.

"Oh, that was nice. Just what I needed after a long week at work." He pulled out of Sherlock, his cock slick with lube and ejaculate. He cleaned himself off with a nearby towel, thinking how much nicer it would be if Sherlock's mouth were available for the task.

Greg got dressed and looked at Sherlock's reddened face. "Now, I'm going to talk with your brother about your atrocious behaviour. I don't think you'll be going anywhere, will you?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"I didn't think so. Back in a sec."

As he made his way down the stairs, Mycroft Holmes rose from his chair behind the wooden desk in the foyer. "Mr Lestrade. How may I be of assistance?"

"Well, the room is lovely, but your brother…"

He gave Mycroft a bit of a smile – he wanted him to know that he was looking for some friendly 'assistance.' He wasn't actually angry.

"Oh, dear…"

"He has a bit of an attitude problem. He's fine when he's gagged, of course, but I'd dearly love to use that mouth of his."

"I'm so sorry, Mr Lestrade. He sometimes does this to instigate punishment. I'd be happy to help if you'd like to reinforce some more _appropriate_ behaviour.

Greg took in Mycroft Holmes' subtle smile and attractive physique. _Oh, I think that would be very nice._ "Thank you. I'd like that."

Greg took to the stairs with Mycroft following him.


	3. Electric Chair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft helps Greg punish Sherlock for his insubordination.

As they entered the bedroom, Mycroft gave a low hum of appreciation. Sherlock's arse, still a lovely shade of red, leaked a mixture of semen and lubricant down his inner thigh. He turned to Greg. "I'm glad to see you already extracted some punishment. May I?"

"Please."

Mycroft unhooked his brother from the sawhorse and moved it to the side. "Kneel on the towel, slut." Mycroft removed the ball gag, shiny with saliva.

Sherlock flexed his jaw and swallowed.

"I hear you were rude to our guest. How dare you?" Mycroft pulled back on his head so Sherlock couldn't avoid his gaze. Greg wondered if Sherlock's hair was long for precisely this purpose.

"This insubordination will cease." He turned to look at Greg. "I'm so sorry. I'll put him in the electric chair."

Greg's eyes widened in horror until he caught Mycroft's smile and remembered the device in the cupboard. Mycroft set up the chair as Greg watched. In the light of the room, it was more obvious that it contained multiple holes in the seat for various-sized dildos and attachments. There was an electrical box attached to the back of the chair. A remote control with various switches and dials sat in a storage pocket.

"Sit."

Sherlock, quiet now, sat in the sturdy wooden chair. His erection, no longer impeded by the sawhorse, was hard against his stomach. Mycroft attached his wrist and ankle cuffs to the eye bolts on the arms and legs of the chair. He went over to the wardrobe, returning with a leather cock ring and a silicone dildo with embedded electrical wires.

He snapped the cock ring tightly around the base of Sherlock's erection. "We don't want you getting too excited, now, do we?" He looked at Greg. "While this _is_ punishment, he does tend to find it… stimulating."

Greg smiled. He'd heard of these devices, but he'd never seen one in use. They emitted small electric shocks through a variety of attachments. He looked at the dildo Mycroft had brought back – it was designed specifically to stimulate the prostate.

Mycroft quickly lubricated the device and knelt on the floor behind the chair. Using his hands to find the correct hole in the seat, he worked the toy through the hole and up into Sherlock's arse. Sherlock shifted slightly, his arse impaled on the chair, and moaned. After firmly securing the dildo, Mycroft attached electrical leads to it. Grabbing the remote control, he stepped in front of the chair to face his brother.

"Now, Sherlock. You're going to give Mr Lestrade a proper apology."

Sherlock emitted a short laugh.

Mycroft slapped him across the face, hard. "You ungrateful little slut. You'll pay for that, believe me, but not quite yet." He turned to Greg. "Please, show him no mercy – he loves having his mouth assaulted. Don't you?"

Sherlock nodded, his face still stinging from the slap.

"I'll be stimulating him while he services you, but the cock ring should ensure he doesn't get any release. Not until we decide, at least." Mycroft smiled at Greg, who had taken the opportunity to undress and put on the plush dressing gown hanging in the bathroom.

Greg would normally still be in recovery mode, but the sight of Sherlock, who had only gotten harder when Mycroft slapped him, made his cock twitch with anticipation.

Mycroft turned a dial on the remote and Sherlock's body convulsed. "Remember, Sherlock? Remember what this feels like? How good that feels on your prostate… How it will start to torment you when you can't get any release?" He turned the dial back down a bit, lowering the shocks to a maddeningly stimulating, but infinitely tolerable level.

"Mr Lestrade. If you'd be so kind?" He motioned to the area in front of the chair.

Greg stood in front of Sherlock, held his semi-hard cock in front of him, and grabbed Sherlock's hair. "Open your mouth, you little cock slut."

Sherlock looked up at him with lust filled eyes and ran his tongue over his lush lips. "Oh, now you're behaving, eh? C'mon. Suck me off, and make it good." He shoved Sherlock's mouth onto his cock, groaning as it was engulfed in tight, wet heat. He pulled Sherlock's head down until his nose was buried in his curly pubic hair.

Sherlock twitched and moaned each time one of the shocks coursed through his body. His complete concentration was focused on expertly sucking Greg back to full hardness. It didn't take long. Sherlock smiled to himself. He took pride in being a _damned good_ cock slut _._

Mycroft noted the look of bliss on Greg's face with satisfaction and turned up the intensity of the shocks a couple of notches. Sherlock moaned as his tongue circled the head of Greg's cock, teasing it.

"How's he doing, Mr Lestrade?"

"Please, nghhh… call me Greg." Greg was having a difficult time keeping his composure. "God, he's good."

"He is talented – I trained him well. But he's a filthy little whore. That's the problem with pain sluts – they're so hard to discipline." He turned to look at Greg. "And with this one, the only real punishment is to withhold sex."

Greg's eyes widened slightly at the implication. _Brothers._ He did a quick moral inventory and decided if Sherlock was _his_ brother, _he'd_ fuck him, too. He smiled at Mycroft. "Perhaps we should make him suffer a little, then. I'd certainly like to see you out of that suit." He gasped as Sherlock sucked his cock harder, unhappy at no longer being the centre of attention.

"I'd like that very much." Mycroft smiled and turned up the electrical stimulator another notch. Normally, it would have sent Sherlock over the edge, but the cock ring was keeping him painfully distant from any release.

Mycroft threw the remote on the bed, ignoring his brother as he looked at Greg with undisguised lust. Of course he'd considered the possibility. He'd even ordered Sherlock to be rude to Mr Lestrade, hoping that Greg would involve him. But any more than being involved in Sherlock's punishment? He'd dismissed _that_ tantalising idea as unattainable.

Greg pulled his cock from Sherlock's mouth almost reluctantly, but he wanted to get Mycroft out of his clothes. He pulled him in for a kiss, not yet sure of the power dynamic between them.

Mycroft relaxed into it, letting Greg lead. He moaned as Greg's tongue slid between his lips. _So long since I've been with anyone but Sherlock. So good to let someone control me._ He gave himself over to sensation as Greg's tongue passionately explored his mouth.

Greg hadn't expected Mycroft to be submissive. He growled in approval and pushed Mycroft gently against the wall.

Leaning close to Mycroft's ear, he whispered, "Not all dom then, eh?"

The smooth sensuality of Mycroft's voice was like a caress. "Not for you, certainly."

If Sherlock was a blazing fire, Mycroft was smoldering embers. Greg was glad he wouldn't have to choose between the two brothers. He pinned Mycroft's wrists to the wall with one strong hand and resumed kissing him.


	4. Not His Department

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade entices Mycroft to stray a little from his job description.

Mycroft's focus was entirely on Greg. Sherlock and the remote were completely forgotten as he revelled in the unfamiliar newness of Greg's mouth and the strong body pressed against him. He moaned as Greg pulled away to nip at his lips and place small bites down his jawline.

Greg released Mycroft's hands as he quickly worked on the younger man's suit. "You…" The tie was off. "Need to be much more naked…" The jacket and waistcoat were shrugged to the floor. "As soon as possible." Greg fumbled with the buttons of Mycroft's shirt as Mycroft worked on his belt and trousers.

Mycroft stood in front of Greg in a pair of navy blue silk boxers. They weren't doing much to hide his raging erection, but he felt oddly self-conscious about stripping completely naked.

Greg stepped back. Mycroft was tall and slender – built like his brother, but fairer-haired and with a light covering of freckles dusting his skin. Greg murmured his approval. While Sherlock was the best _amenity_ ever, Mycroft was much more his type. He drew closer once more, pulling Mycroft towards him with a hand on his lower back.

"Well, Mr Holmes…"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow inquisitively at the slightly shorter man.

Greg continued, "I certainly didn't expect to have the pleasure of _your_ company this afternoon. Are you sure this is something you want?"

"Quite."

Sherlock moaned in protest. He was still impaled on the chair, which continued its relentless assault on his prostate.

Greg turned around and glared at him. "If you can't be quiet, I'll tape that pretty mouth of yours shut. It'll hurt like hell when I pull it off. Your choice."

Sherlock fell silent and slumped against the chair, resigned, for now, to the torture of watching his brother get all the attention.

"I'm afraid I have a bit of a confession to make, Mr Lestrade."

"Greg."

"Greg. I asked Sherlock to misbehave, hoping you would involve me. I didn't for a minute expect…" He motioned to his mostly-naked body, a little self-consciously.

Greg pushed him back against the wall, a smile on his lips. "Do you want me to punish you, or would you rather I just fuck you senseless?"

A small involuntary moan escaped Mycroft's lips at the thought. "Oh…"

Greg's fingers teased the waistband of Mycroft's boxers, dipping beneath the smooth silk to wrap them around Mycroft's hard length. "I'm having so much fun punishing your brother. I think I'd rather fuck you senseless."

"I'd like that." Feeling more confident, Mycroft slid his fingers around Greg's cock and pulled him back in for another kiss.

Greg's kiss was rougher this time, and Mycroft melted into it.

"Do you want to tell me what you want, or shall I just take it?" Greg's voice was a whisper as he playfully bit at Mycroft's ear.

"Please… take." Mycroft was so turned on by the idea of ceding all control that he could barely breathe.

"Mm. That's what I thought." Greg pulled Mycroft's pants down as he nudged him towards the bed. "Centre of the bed, hands and knees."

Greg turned to Sherlock. "Alright, slut. The only time I want to see your mouth open is if I'm about to come down your throat. Got it?"

Sherlock nodded, a thin sheen of sweat glistening over his naked form. His erection strained against the cock ring, and the toy impaled deep in his arse continued its merciless assault. His ankles and wrists were still securely bound to the chair, making any attempts at self-gratification impossible.

Greg retrieved a bottle of lube and spread a large fluffy towel over the expensive duvet. Without a word, Mycroft repositioned himself on the towel. Greg climbed onto the bed next to him and playfully pulled Mycroft down on top of him. Mycroft gasped at the contact with Greg's tanned body, and a lock of dark ginger hair fell rebelliously across his forehead. Greg ran his fingers through Mycroft's hair affectionately. "You're always so controlled, aren't you?"

Mycroft smiled ruefully and glanced in Sherlock's direction. "One of us has to be."

"Perhaps you could make an exception?"

"I'll do my best." A genuine smile spread over Mycroft's face.

Greg grabbed Mycroft's arse and pulled him close, grinding their erections together. Mycroft let out a loud moan and offered up the long expanse of his neck for Greg's mouth. Without warning, Greg flipped Mycroft onto his back and pinned him to the bed. Nibbling his way along Mycroft's neck, he slowly moved down his chest, and Mycroft let out a small yelp as Greg's teeth brushed his right nipple.

Releasing Mycroft's hands, Greg knelt back on his heels and took in the sight of Mycroft spread wantonly beneath him. "So fucking gorgeous…"

Mycroft flushed, not used to the scrutiny or the compliment – both of those were Sherlock's domain.

"Right, get on your hands and knees. I'm going to fuck you halfway into next week." Greg slicked up his fingers and his cock as Mycroft shifted position. Sliding one finger into him, he was surprised at how tight Mycroft was. Sherlock, watching the proceedings with interest, laughed cruelly.

Mycroft shot his brother a fierce look, but it wasn't enough.

Sherlock said, haughtily, "He won't let me fuck him, you know. No one has fucked him halfway to anywhere for years."

Mycroft slowly closed his eyes in humiliation and exhaled, praying the bed would swallow him up.


	5. Mycroft's Turn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft gets some attention for a change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: sibling incest

Greg got off the bed, silently furious. He went to the cabinet and removed a roll of medical tape.

"Of course he won't let you fuck him. You're an arrogant little slut who doesn't know his place. Your only function is to be a willing mouth and arse for your brother and anyone else he chooses." Greg ripped off a piece of the tape and plastered it across Sherlock's mouth, pressing firmly to make sure it would stay in place.

Greg grabbed the remote off the bed and turned it off with a smile.

Sherlock let out a muffled cry from behind the tape. It was clear Greg had no intention of letting him get off anytime soon, even though the cock ring was keeping him painfully hard. _Perhaps I can shift against the toy in my arse. It'll be better than nothing._

Greg looked at him, seeming to read his thoughts. "I don't think so." He knelt behind the chair and pulled the toy roughly from Sherlock's arse, earning a muted moan. He checked the cuffs on Sherlock's wrists and ankles. Satisfied there was nothing Sherlock could do, physically at least, to stimulate himself, he spoke to Sherlock again.

"Look at me, slut." Sherlock's eyes were still full of defiance. "You're going to watch me pleasure your brother, and you're not going to be any part of it. As far as we're concerned, you're not even here. You're furniture. If you're lucky, I _might_ let you lick my come out of his arse later. That's all you're fit for, you know – a human towel. You're going to learn some respect, even if it takes the entire weekend."

Greg turned all of his attention back to Mycroft and got back onto the bed. He flipped Mycroft over and pinned him to the bed once more. "Your brother's a bit of a prat, isn't he."

Mycroft smiled, ruefully. "I probably haven't been hard enough on him."

"Oh, I suspect he's incorrigible. I'm far more interested in what I can do to _you_ …" He forcefully took Mycroft's mouth in a kiss, leaving no doubt as to who was in charge.

Mycroft felt the tension go out of his muscles as Greg explored his mouth. He desperately needed this. What Sherlock had said was true – it really had been ages. Other than his unconventional relationship with Sherlock, he rarely had sex. It had been a form of self-preservation over the years – Sherlock was enough of a handful without involving anyone else. Sherlock's employment status as an 'amenity' kept him off drugs, sexually satisfied, and most importantly, not bored. Though Sherlock would probably never admit it, Mycroft knew he was happy and content. _God knows he'd be long gone if he wasn't._ But now, with Greg pinning him against the luxurious bed, his desire surged and he yearned to submit his own body for a change. He tried to free his wrists, hoping Greg would retaliate with more force. He did. Greg pushed him harder against the bed, grinding his erection against Mycroft's.

Mycroft moaned at the increased pressure – both on his wrists and his cock.

"You need a good, hard fuck, Mycroft Holmes. That's what you want, isn't it? My thick cock in your arse?"

An unexpected whimper came from the direction of the chair. It was ignored.

Mycroft could barely manage a "Please…" as he met Greg's brown eyes in a lust-filled stare.

Greg repositioned his hands firmly on Mycroft's shoulders and started teasing his left nipple. His tongue trailed delicately around the edge of it, and then he bit down on it, hard. His tongue flicked at the newly-tender nipple, focusing all Mycroft's attention on that one spot. He kept at it until Mycroft was squirming with pleasure, then he released his shoulders and manhandled him onto his stomach. "Hands and knees."

Sherlock watched with envy as his brother knelt on all fours. Mycroft's thick cock bobbed above the duvet, as if taunting him. It was Sherlock's favourite position for getting fucked, and it just added insult to injury.

Mycroft knelt there, quivering, eager for Greg to take him. He looked back in surprise as a single slick finger breached him.

"Don't worry, you're going to get it nice and rough." Greg's voice softened. "I just want to make sure I don't hurt you. There are plenty of other ways for me to do that later, if that's what you'd like."

"You know, I'd still like to apologise for having deceived you, Greg." There was a trace of a smile in his voice as he knelt there, his arse an inviting target.

"That was pretty unforgivable." He brought his left hand down on Mycroft's arse with a sharp 'crack.'

Mycroft reacted to the impact by impaling himself deeper on Greg's slicked-up finger and moaning.

"Oh, you liked that, did you?"

"Yes, sir."

Greg grinned at the title. "Mm. A little respect will go a long way. Your brother could learn a lot from you." A quick series of blows rained down on Mycroft's arse that left him squirming against Greg's finger.

"Thank you, sir."

The sight of his brother being spanked made Sherlock's own recently spanked arse tingle. He cursed himself for watching them – it just made his already painfully erect cock even harder. He strained against the wrist cuffs, trying to reach the tip of his cock with his long fingers. Not even close. He groaned in frustration behind the medical tape.

Greg dropped his head and slowly licked a broad stripe up Mycroft's tender spanked arse. Mycroft groaned in surprise and pleasure at the gentle touch. Without warning, Greg added a second finger to the first and started to stretch him further.

After an initial gasp at the intrusion, Mycroft started to relax. Soon he was pushing back, eagerly fucking himself on Greg's fingers. Greg brushed over his prostate teasingly, and Mycroft completely lost his formal demeanour.

"Ohh… fuck!"

"Want more, eh?"

Mycroft struggled to regain his composure. "God, yes… please, sir."

Greg indulged him; he stroked Mycroft's leaking cock with his left hand as he massaged his prostate with the other.

Mycroft's brain catapulted between the sensations in his cock and his arse. He didn't even notice his own embarrassingly needy moaning. When Greg released his cock, Mycroft realised he was making enough noise for the both of them. He forced himself into silence, panting. "Sorry, sir."

"I don't know why. I like hearing the noises I can fuck out of you. I'm sure Sherlock does too."

Greg added a third finger, and Mycroft openly groaned at the delicious stretch. It didn't hurt, it felt wonderful. _I'd forgotten what it's like to be taken._

Greg's breath caught in his throat as he watched Mycroft writhe and impale himself on his hand. "Fuck, you're hot. I can't wait to shove my cock in your arse. I'm going to make you scream, and you're going to beg for more."

Greg's fingers already had Mycroft begging. "Please… now. Fuck me now."

Jealousy and lust surged through Sherlock at Mycroft's words. _It's not fair. Why the hell does he get to fuck Mycroft? It should be me. I'm the one who's wanted him all these years._

Greg leaned close to Mycroft and whispered, "You'd better be sure about that, because once I start pounding this tight arse of yours, I won't be able to stop."

Mycroft's brain could only come up with one response. "Yes. Rough…"

Greg pulled his fingers out of Mycroft's arse and slicked up his straining cock. "Oh, yes."

Mycroft felt the head of Greg's cock at his entrance and started to push back onto it. Strong hands gripped his hips and suddenly Greg was thrusting into him, hard and all at once. His brain lit up in an explosion of colour as it tried to process the overwhelming sensations. The sudden obscene stretch, the force of Greg's cock pushing inside him, the feel of Greg's body slamming against his own – his entire body sang.

Sherlock tried to remain aloof as his brother threw his head back and roared with pleasure. _It's a good thing he had this place soundproofed._ The next thought crept into his mind unbidden. _If I'd kept my mouth shut, that would be me._ It stung, and he wrenched against his bonds in frustration. The cuffs were too soft to dig into his skin, denying him the pain he wanted. He cursed incoherently behind the tape.

Greg and Mycroft were too wrapped up in layers of sensation to know or care about Sherlock's tantrum. Greg pulled out a little and slammed back into Mycroft. The tight, hot friction of it was exquisite. Mycroft's wanton reaction just fed Greg's own lust – his head was thrown back and his normally impeccable hair lay in wild sweaty curls across his forehead. _Seeing him come undone like this…_

"Harder, Greg… ngghh…" Mycroft's words lapsed into incoherence as he pushed back to meet Greg's punishing thrusts. _I needed this. God, how I needed this._

Greg dug his fingers into Mycroft's hips as he pounded into him, hard enough to earn a caught breath in between Mycroft's constant moans. "You like pain as much as your brother, don't you?"

Mycroft didn't answer, not wanting to admit it, and too absorbed in the fucking to care.

Greg slapped his arse hard as he continued driving into him. "Don't you dare hold back on me. Say it."

"Yes…" He trailed off as he struggled to find words through the haze of pleasure in his mind. "I like… the pain."

"You missed it, didn't you? You're quite right not to let your little slut of a brother give it to you – you need it from someone who understands you."

Mycroft tilted his head in confusion, no longer sure whether Greg was talking about pain or sex.

Greg smiled, knowing. "Both, Mycroft Holmes. Don't worry, I'll give you what you need." He bent over and sunk his teeth into Mycroft's shoulder as he gave a particularly vicious thrust, and Mycroft let out a throaty yell at the overwhelming pleasure/pain.

Mycroft felt the resulting electricity travel down his spine and his whole body tense as the sensation thrust him over the edge. Suddenly, a strong hand grasped the base of his cock, pushing his orgasm painfully back into the distance.

"Please… please let me come…"

"Not yet, gorgeous. I'm not done with you. Besides, I have something special in mind." It only took a few more hard strokes before Greg was coming deep inside Mycroft's arse. He let the waves of pleasure overwhelm him for a few minutes, basking in it. Then he pulled out of Mycroft, his cock shiny with his own semen.

"Stay there – hands and knees – don't worry, I'll see to you soon enough." Greg crawled off the bed and gave Mycroft a deep, passionate kiss. "You're fucking amazing, you know that?"

He walked over to Sherlock, who was still completely hard and utterly indignant. He stared daggers at Greg.

Greg grabbed the edge of the tape and pulled it off Sherlock's mouth in one quick move. Sherlock yelped with pain as the tape came off. He looked like he was about to say something, but wisely kept it to himself.

"Right, slut, clean me off." Greg pulled Sherlock's head down and Sherlock opened his mouth, eagerly taking his soft cock inside. He lapped at it, cleaning Greg's semen and remnants of lubricant from it. Greg pulled his head back. "Right, that's enough. I don't want you enjoying that too much."

Greg unclipped the restraints on Sherlock's wrists and ankles. "Now, clean your brother up. He's full of my come. Put that mouth of yours to good use for a change."

Sherlock couldn't help it as a triumphant smile swept over his face. _Finally. Not being ignored._

Greg didn't miss the gloating expression – he'd make Sherlock pay for that later – but at the moment, he didn't care. It would be worth it to see the little slut with his face buried in his brother's arse.

Greg looked over at Mycroft, somehow looking elegantly debauched, kneeling on the bed. "Lie on your right side for me."

Mycroft silently complied, but his unsatisfied lust was evident in the hungry look he gave Greg.

Greg grabbed Sherlock by the hair and pushed him onto the bed. "I want you to get every last drop of my come out of his arse."

Sherlock knelt behind his brother, spread his arse cheeks with both hands, and started tonguing his entrance.

Greg watched him for about thirty seconds, a look of amazement on his face, before he spoke. "Did you not hear what I said? I want you to clean him out, not give him the world's most delicate rim job."

Greg pushed Sherlock's face hard against Mycroft's arse, driving his long tongue deep inside his brother. Lube and sweat smeared across Sherlock's cheekbones as Greg firmly held his head in place. "I want your tongue all the way inside that nice tight hole of his. And afterwards you're going to thank him for the privilege. He'll tell me if you're not trying hard enough."

Mycroft groaned as Sherlock's tongue breached him, opening him back up and seeking out Greg's release. His eyes fluttered closed at the sensation, and it was all he could do not to tug at his aching cock. _So close._

"Mm. Not yet. I'm not done with you."

Mycroft's eyes shot open at the sound of Greg's voice.

Greg stood next to the bed, a mischievous look on his face. "Let's see how long you can last, shall we?"

Mycroft wasn't sure how much longer he _could_ last. Sherlock's tongue in his arse was already sending delicious sensations up his spine.

Greg crawled onto the bed and looked Mycroft in the eyes. "Don't you dare come until I tell you." Without another word, he swallowed Mycroft's cock down to the root.

Mycroft nearly passed out from the sensation.

His body screamed with pleasure as the two extraordinarily talented mouths worked on pushing him to the edge. It was all he could do to stop himself from coming deep in Greg's throat. _Have to wait. Told me to wait._ Sherlock's insistent tongue probed deeper, and Greg was doing delicious things to the head of his cock. _Fuck…_

His thoughts turned to white noise as the pleasure, impossibly, increased. _This is it, can't hold on…_ Greg's hand on his balls, tugging gently, brought him back to Earth, pushing his orgasm back, just out of reach. He felt Greg's mouth slip off his cock.

"Not yet. Soon."

Then it was back again, the hot wetness of it sending him out of his mind.

Greg watched the expressions on Mycroft's face. They were all over the place, moving from blissful to pained to something near transcendence. It was time. He pulled off Mycroft's cock and grabbed Sherlock by the hair, pulling him over Mycroft. Sherlock scrambled quickly into position in front of his brother.

Mycroft's body throbbed at the sudden loss of contact, and his brain struggled to catch up. And then Greg's face was there, inches from his own – their eyes locked, and Greg whispering into his mouth. "Come for me, Mycroft. Come all over your brother's face." Greg's mouth was hot and desperate on his, and he wasn't sure if it was Greg's words or his kiss that pushed him over the edge, but he was falling and his release crashed over him like waves.

Greg watched as Mycroft came in thick spurts – all over Sherlock's face and open mouth. Satisfied Sherlock was doing his job, Greg went back to kissing Mycroft – gently this time – caressing his face and neck as his body trembled through the aftershocks of the powerful orgasm.

When Mycroft finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. "So good… thank you." He smiled at Greg with genuine warmth.

Greg smiled back. "It was my pleasure, Mycroft Holmes."


	6. Atonement Satisfied

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg decides Sherlock has paid for his insolence.

Sherlock looked up at them, his striking features covered in thick strings of ejaculate, his hard cock still imprisoned by the cock ring. He had the sense not to speak.

Greg looked at him and smirked. "We're getting a shower. Kneel outside the shower until we're finished. After you dry us off, you can clean yourself up. Until then, you can only clean what you can reach with your tongue." He picked up a snap hook from the dresser and clipped Sherlock's wrist cuffs behind his back. "I wouldn't want you getting yourself off or anything."

Greg and Mycroft climbed off the bed, leaving Sherlock to follow them.

As he stood next to Greg in steaming shower, Mycroft looked at Sherlock, kneeling quietly in the centre of the room. He was motionless, except for his tongue, which licked his face clean as far as it could reach. "I haven't seen him this calm in months."

Greg smiled. "Sometimes you just have to treat him like the filthy little slut he is."

"And me?" Mycroft was smiling. "What would you recommend there?"

Greg pinned him against the wall of the shower playfully and kissed him deeply before answering. "I think I need to plough that gorgeous arse of yours on a more regular basis. You need someone to keep you in line as well." He nipped at Mycroft's lower lip.

"I think I'd like that." _I think I need that._ He was suddenly pensive, and he tried not to let it show. _But it's not like I can expect anything after this weekend…_

Greg felt Mycroft's mood change, and he could hear it in his voice when Mycroft spoke.

"You know, Greg, I don't usually... I don't want to put you in an awkward position…" He trailed off, unsure of what to say.

"Your brother already told me that you don't normally do this, remember? And in case you're wondering, I don't sleep with all the handsome, incestuous innkeepers I meet, either." He kept his voice light, but he didn't want Mycroft to think he was making a joke out of it. He tried to read the expression on Mycroft's face, but it was inscrutable. "Look, I'm going to come off as an arrogant sod for even asking this, but I need to know: are you regretting that this happened or regretting that it will end after this weekend?"

"It's not like anyone gets down to the coast very often. I don't expect…" Mycroft paused, then seemed to pull himself together and stood a bit taller. "It will be my pleasure to spend the rest of the weekend with you, Gregory. I can assure you I have no regrets that this happened. Quite the opposite." _I just wish it could happen again._

"Good. Because I see no reason why it has to stop after this weekend, if we don't want it to. I'm just saying…"

"Oh…" The look of surprise on Mycroft's face changed into a wide smile. "Like I said, I think I'd like that."

Greg pushed Mycroft back against the wall of the shower and took his mouth in another hard kiss.

Sherlock smiled to himself. He'd never admit it to Mycroft, but he liked seeing his brother happy. He watched as they showered – kissing, just enjoying each other's company. They were both in a post-orgasmic haze, taking their time. It was maddening. His cock ached for stimulation – any stimulation – pain or pleasure at this point. He didn't care. His brother's semen was drying on his face and starting to itch. _I could join them in the shower._ Even as he thought it, he knew it wasn't an option. He desperately wanted to be able to play – with either of them, preferably both of them – and that would just get him locked in the cupboard for the afternoon. Possibly the entire weekend. He had to stay here - kneeling, on display, like a pet – and wait for them to finish their shower.

_A pet._ He'd never thought of it like that. He was aware his mind was wandering, but it didn't seem like he was going to need it anytime soon, and he allowed it. _I could fetch their slippers. Bring them the newspaper. On my hands and knees. Wearing my collar. They could take me out for walks, on my leash. Put me in my cage. Punish me for being bad._ The pet analogy had merit. It broke down when he got to the sex though, and he shook his head to rid himself of the image. Even he had limits.

He snapped out of his reverie when he heard the water being turned off. He stood and walked to the shower so Greg could unlink his cuffs without leaving the plush cotton bathmat. With the use of his arms restored, he went to fetch towels, blatantly ignoring the screaming protests from his cock.

He dried them – first Greg, then Mycroft – thoroughly and respectfully. At no point (and he was quite proud of himself), did he 'accidentally' let the towel rub against his aching prick, or use his hand to brush the dried semen from his face. When he finished, he brought them warm dressing gowns, hung up the damp towels, and knelt back in the centre of the floor, hands behind his back and his head bowed.

Mycroft looked at Greg, and raised an eyebrow, impressed. Greg smiled. The two of them left the bathroom and retired to the sitting room. Sherlock remained, kneeling, in the centre of the bathroom. Mycroft was thrilled – his brother could be a complete prat, but at least he was proving he had some manners, and was trainable.

They made him wait. Greg made idle chit-chat about the weather on the coast. Mycroft poured them both a glass of scotch. They left the shoji screen open – Sherlock could hear them but not see them.

Sherlock started to wonder if he could get away with touching himself. Just to relieve the ache – not enough to get himself off, just a quick stroke – that was all he wanted. He slowly started to move his hand from behind his back.

There was a pause in the conversation, and Greg's voice, louder than before, came through the door. "Do it, and you'll be in that cage for the rest of the weekend."

_Fucking hell. Is he psychic or something?_

Greg looked at Mycroft and grinned. His voice low so Sherlock wouldn't hear, he said, "Subs are all the same. I know how long it takes for them to get rebellious when nobody's looking."

He raised his voice again. "Okay, Sherlock, come out here. It's time for you to give us a show."

Sherlock quietly entered the room bearing a towel, unfolded it on the floor in front of them, and knelt on it.

Greg looked at him, still covered in Mycroft's dried semen, his raging hard-on untouched. "I'm impressed – you've shown much more restraint since your punishment. I'm going to let you come, but not until I say so. Undo the cock ring."

Sherlock unsnapped the leather band and gasped at the rush of sensation. He forced his hands back to his sides.

"Tell me why you deserve this, Sherlock."

"I don't, sir. I'm a filthy little cock slut who just wants to be used."

"I'll bet you do. Get yourself off. Slowly. Don't come until I say."

As Sherlock gingerly wrapped his hand around his cock, he nearly lost control. His brain contributed as much to his arousal as his touch. He was on display for Mycroft. He'd made Mycroft proud of him. And Greg – he was different from the other Doms who'd stayed. He _wanted_ to please Greg. He wasn't just another guest he could mentally ridicule as he sucked them off.

He pulled his hand slowly up the length of his cock. His head was filled with images of Mycroft and Greg, taking him, using him in every way imaginable. Taking his mouth and arse at the same time. Both of them fucking his arse at the same time. _Oh. God._ He gripped the base of his cock tightly, desperately trying to stave off the orgasm that thought had almost triggered.

Greg watched Sherlock and smiled. Kneeling there, his eyes closed and his head thrown back, mouth open in deep panting breaths, he was like some orgiastic Dionysian statue carved out of marble. "Don't stop."

"I have to… I can't… I'll come."

"Don't stop. Don't make me tell you again."

Sherlock tried to clear his mind as his hand slid down to the base of his cock, every inch of its journey flooding his brain with sensation, his oversensitive nerves screaming for more.

Clearing his mind wasn't working. Perhaps filling it would. _3.14159265358979…_

His hand moved slowly back up his cock.

_Hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium, boron, carbon, nitrogen, oxygen..._

Someone grabbed his hair and his eyes flew open. Greg was right above him, staring at him. "Stop the little head games. I didn't tell you to try _not_ to get yourself off."

"You told me not to come."

"I told you to get yourself off, and to wait to come until I told you. You'll follow all my orders, not just the ones you feel like."

Mycroft was smiling, he already knew the answer. Sherlock was still working out the question.

"But I'm so close, any more and I'll come."

"You're supposed to be smart – figure it out." Greg wrapped his hand around Sherlock's and started roughly jerking him off with his own fist.

Sherlock let out a guttural scream as he started to come, and Greg grasped the base of his cock, chasing the orgasm away again. "Not until you figure it out. I'll give you a hint. What if I never let you come?"

_Oh god, please, no…_

Something in his brain silently clicked into place.

_Ohhh. Beg! He wants me to beg for release. Stupid, stupid, stupid._

"Please, sir. Please let me come. Please. I'm begging you."

Greg smiled. "About fucking time you figured it out. Go ahead, come for us."

Sherlock groaned as his hand flew back to his cock. All it took was a couple quick strokes and a flick of his thumb over the fat head, and his orgasm was ripped from him as he screamed in pleasure and relief. His release spattered across his stomach and chest, and his whole body throbbed as he rode out the aftershocks. He knelt there weakly, sweat-slick strands of hair clinging to his forehead.

Greg helped him to his feet and handed him a towel. "Clean yourself up a bit. You can shower later, but you should rest a little first. Get a dressing gown and join us."

As Sherlock made his way rather unsteadily to the bathroom, Greg sat back down next to Mycroft with a smile. "Do you think I was too hard on him?"

Mycroft laughed. "Never."

Greg leaned over and kissed him, the act surprisingly intimate after what they'd just shared. It was gentle, each exploring the other without the sexual urgency of before. But when Greg pulled back, Mycroft started to tense up.

"I'm sorry, Gregory, I should get us something to eat."

"I'd rather you stay here. Why don't you take the weekend off?"

"I… um… I can't. It's not right…"

Greg almost smiled at Mycroft's uncharacteristic lack of composure. "I'm your guest this weekend, right?"

"Yes…"

"You ensure your guests have a pleasant visit…"

"I pride myself on it."

"Well, I think my visit would be even more pleasant if you took the weekend off and spent it with me."

Greg didn't want to 'order' him to do anything – this had to be Mycroft's choice, not his. But already, he was struck by how much he craved Mycroft's company. His job didn't leave much time for a social life, and his infrequent sex life consisted mostly of dom/sub play among a small circle of similarly-minded friends. Opportunities to spend time with a fascinating man like Mycroft were few and far between.

Mycroft's expression was curious. "What do you propose?"

"Show me around Torquay. Let me take you out to dinner. Perhaps we could share some of the lovely 'amenities' you offer here."

As if on cue, the 'amenity' stepped into the living room, cleaned off and wearing one of the plush dressing gowns.

Greg's gaze didn't leave Mycroft and his voice softened further – he wanted Mycroft to know he was serious about this. "Look, I'd like you to relax this weekend. Don't worry about everyone else's needs for a change. Let me take care of yours."

Mycroft gave him a long stare, as if debating the wisdom of getting involved – any more than he already had – with a guest. He broke the silence with a smile. "Thank you, Gregory. I'd like that." This time, he was the one to lean in and initiate a kiss.

Sherlock raised one eyebrow in silent surprise. Sex was one thing – something he could certainly understand – but Mycroft never allowed himself this sort of emotional vulnerability. He turned and stepped quietly into the bedroom to give his brother some privacy.

Sherlock's mind went back to Greg. This one was definitely different. Usually, he could manipulate Doms into doing whatever he wanted - all it took was one look at his pretty arse and the tag on his collar, and he was topping _them_. Most of them didn't even realise it. He was the one on his knees or getting his arse whipped, but those were exactly the things he wanted. But this one knew what he was doing, and, more disturbingly, he found himself wanting to actually submit to him – submit to him as he did to Mycroft, without reservation. He gave a wry smile. _Mycroft isn't the only one who doesn't allow emotional vulnerability. Besides, if he hurts Mycroft, I'll kill him._ All of Mycroft's steely personal barriers were there for a reason. _The same reason he only usually fucks me._

His thoughts were cut off as Mycroft and Greg entered the bedroom.

Greg looked out of the large windows at the dusky sky. "I s'pose we should find some food. There's got to be a chippy 'round here somewhere, right?"

Sherlock could barely conceal a smirk. He couldn't remember the last time Mycroft had gotten fish and chips for dinner – at least not outside of a proper restaurant – and certainly not wrapped in newspaper and doused in vinegar.

Greg took in the slightly horrified look on Mycroft's face and completely misinterpreted it.

"Um, that wasn't what I meant by taking you out to dinner. I was thinking we could eat here tonight. Of course I'll take you out somewhere proper tomorrow."

Mycroft clearly didn't know what to say.

Sherlock, however, couldn't keep his mouth shut. "I believe my brother's expression conveyed horror at his lack of familiarity with the local chippy, not the thought that you might want to take him to one."

Mycroft shook his head and rubbed his temples with one, elegant hand. "Sherlock, do shut up. Fish and chips would be lovely, Gregory. I'll make the arrangements."

Greg playfully pinned Mycroft to the wall. He leaned in close and whispered. "Have you already forgotten?"

Mycroft looked confused. "What?"

"You're taking the weekend off. Or do I have to forcibly remind you?" He nipped at Mycroft's ear. "I'm positive Sherlock can handle it. I think there are better ways you could spend your valuable time."

Mycroft gave him a positively devilish grin. "Such as?"

"Well, showing me which of these delicious implements you'd like me to use on you, for a start." He motioned toward the cabinet containing every type of bondage device and sex toy imaginable.

Mycroft glanced out from behind Greg's body. "Sherlock, three fish and chips. Take your time."

"And a beer."

Mycroft smirked. "I do have beer, you know."

Sherlock made himself scarce, obviously having clothes _somewhere_ in the house. Greg idly wondered if he dressed in three-piece suits like his brother. Somehow, he didn't think so.


	7. Sense Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Greg spend some time alone. Mycroft's past bleeds into the present.

"So, Mycroft Holmes… always thinking about your work…" He let go of one of Mycroft's wrists to undo the belt on Mycroft's dressing gown. Mycroft was half-hard, and getting harder by the second. "Perhaps a little bit of punishment will help you remember your priorities." Greg gave Mycroft's arse a playful slap. "Hm?"

The pain, light as it was, made Mycroft's heart race. It had been a _very_ long time since he'd done any sort of pain play, and he missed it.

Greg watched Mycroft's reaction to the slap on his arse. He gave him another slap to be sure. _Yes, definitely. Fast, shallow breaths, dilated pupils. He wasn't just reacting to the rough sex earlier, he really is into pain._

Greg grabbed one of Mycroft's wrists and led him to the cabinet of sex toys. Mycroft's dressing gown was half open, and his arousal was obvious.

"Since it was a minor infraction, I'll let you choose. How do you want me to hurt you, Mr Holmes?"

Mycroft's mouth went dry. "Whatever you want, sir."

"I want you to choose." He wanted to see what Mycroft would pick. Sometimes the choice said interesting things about people.

Mycroft looked at the wide variety of toys – all his. Each one of them had a story. He'd experienced all of them – a good Dom doesn't inflict pain without knowing the toy's effect, both mental and physical, on the recipient. He had a particular affinity for riding crops. They were his first introduction to pain. The stables at Holmes Manor had provided the perfect implement to satisfy his early curiosity – it hadn't taken much convincing to get one of the younger stable hands to use one on him.

He examined the implements for about a minute before turning to Greg. "I'd like you to spank me, Gregory. I want to feel your hand on me." He half expected Greg to refuse, but Greg just smiled.

_Interesting. That's about as intimate as you can get. I wonder how long it's been since anyone spanked that lovely arse? God, I'm lucky._ Greg pulled him towards the chair by the window. Greg sat on the edge of the upholstered chair and pulled Mycroft over his knees. Pushing Mycroft's dressing gown to the side, he rubbed his hand slowly against the unmarked expanse of skin. "Do you have a safeword?"

"Only 'stop.'"

"I'm not going to push you to your limits, Mycroft. Like I said before, there'll be plenty of time for that later if you want it. I just want you to feel the hot sting of my hand on your bare arse – see it glow a nice shade of red like your brother's. Are you ready?"

Mycroft was glad Sherlock wasn't here for this. As much as he wanted this, the pain would bring back memories, and he wasn't sure exactly how he'd react. He didn't want Sherlock to see his vulnerability. "Gregory, I have to warn you, my past history with pain play…" He trailed off, unsure of how to put it.

Greg looked at him with concern. "We don't have to do this."

"No, I want to. I just felt you should know – I might have unexpected… emotional reactions to this. It's a long story. Please, I do want this."

"Promise me you won't push yourself too far. This is not the time to prove a point, either to yourself or to me."

"I promise. I'm ready."

Mycroft flinched as Greg's first blow landed on his arse. The pain was sharp but quickly spread across his skin like a warm, glowing buzz. The pain brought the memories rushing back too, but he forced them into the background. Another blow, another sting, and once again, pain sublimated into pleasure and warmth. But the sense memory of it just kept forcing his past to the present, no matter how much he tried to banish it to the back of his mind. After eight blows, it threatened to overwhelm him.

Greg noticed Mycroft's body tense and stopped. "You okay?"

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably on Greg's knees. "Um… no."

Greg immediately pulled him upright and held him tightly. "It's okay. I've got you."

Mycroft relaxed – almost slumped – into Greg's embrace. "I'm sorry… I thought I could…"

"Don't be sorry. C'mere." He led him gently to the bed and they both crawled onto it. Greg curled himself around Mycroft's back and held him, placing kisses on his neck and murmuring softly. "You're going to be okay. I've got you. You're safe." Slowly – very slowly – he felt the tension leave Mycroft's body.

"I'm sorry, Greg."

"Don't be. Really, it's okay."

"The pain just brought back too much… I shouldn't have involved you. It's been so long and I thought I could handle it now."

"Don't apologise, and don't feel like you have to explain. Just lie here, okay?"

"Okay." Mycroft relaxed into Greg's strong embrace, glad not to have to explain his embarrassing reaction.

They lay there for a long time. Greg finally broke the silence. "How are you feeling?"

Mycroft pried himself away from Greg and rolled over so he was facing him. Greg's features were soft in the half-light of the room. Not for the first time that day, he felt himself intensely drawn to the older man. _If I'd known this would happen, would I have allowed him to book the weekend? Probably not._ His life was a study in isolation, with the exception of his brother. Feeling out of control like this was slightly terrifying. _Absolutely terrifying._ And yet, letting Greg have control, even for a little while, felt so good.

"Better, thank you. I appreciate your understanding, Greg, but perhaps I should leave." _It's less complicated if I leave. Easier._

Greg's face fell. "Do you want to?"

Mycroft shifted uneasily on the bed. "Um… well… not really, actually."

Greg allowed himself a bit of hope. "So. Um… how do the sleeping arrangements usually work? Does Sherlock usually stay in the room…?"

_Odd change of subject._ "It depends on the wishes of the guest."

"Well, I'd like for _you_ to stay. Whether Sherlock stays, I'll leave up to the two of you, but I'd like you to be here with me. I know that's unconventional, and I'll understand if you don't want to."

"Greg, you don't have to do this just because…" _because I completely lost my composure…_

"Don't assume that had any part in my request. It didn't."

Greg raised his eyebrows a fraction of an inch in a silent question.

Mycroft's brain waged a silent battle against itself. _What's stopping you, other than fear?_ He let out a long breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "Yes, Gregory. I'd like that."

Greg's face relaxed into a smile. _I'd like that too._ "Just so we're clear, I'm not, um… expecting anything. I'd just like to spend more time with you. Near you. Okay?"

Mycroft smiled for the first time in what seemed like ages. "Mm. I'd like that. I'm sorry about earlier, I should explain…"

Greg silenced him with a kiss. "You don't have to explain anything. We can talk later if you want – or not. Let's just have some food and take things from there, okay?"

Mycroft nodded. "I'd prefer if Sherlock didn't find out about this."

"I wouldn't dream of it. C'mon – I could use a little of that lovely scotch you have. Care to join me?"

By the time Sherlock returned with the fish and chips, they were lounging on the sofa, glasses of Lagavulin in hand. Mycroft was in the middle of telling Greg about the local history of smuggling when Sherlock opened the door with a large bag, looking triumphant. It smelled of warm paper and vinegar.

"God, that takes me back. I haven't had good fish and chips in years. Thanks, Sherlock."

Sherlock handed out the individually wrapped packages – the inner layer of wax paper was a concession to the health codes, but the outside was still wrapped in newsprint. Inside, hot battered cod and vinegar soaked chips released a delicious scent into the air.

Mycroft looked at the newsprint-wrapped package with something approaching trepidation. "Perhaps I should fetch some plates."

Greg looked at him. "Trust me. We don't need plates. Go on, open it. It won't bite. Just rip through the top and use it like a bowl. "

Sherlock had already torn into his and was busy cradling the makeshift paper container in one hand while shovelling chips into his mouth with the other. "Mm. C'mon Mycroft. Live like the rest of the world for once."

"Here." Greg reached out to take Mycroft's fish and chips. He ripped into the top and handed them back to Mycroft. "Living like savages is underrated."

Mycroft started eating and was surprised to find that it was delicious, in a slightly greasy, unlikely sort of way.

Sherlock left the room and returned a few minutes later with three pints of beer. He handed one to Mycroft with a smile. "You have to at least try it. Consider it a part of the experience."

"I have drunk beer before, Sherlock."

"Not with fish and chips."

Greg smirked at the bickering siblings. It was actually quite endearing, and it seemed to take Mycroft's mind off what had happened earlier. _Clearly something ended badly._ It was pretty obvious they'd be steering clear of any pain play for the rest of the weekend.


	8. Preparation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's preparations lead to a change in plans.

Dinner turned into companionable chatting, and Greg was pleasantly surprised to find Sherlock equally as interesting as his brother. Any worries he'd had about the awkward nature of social interactions after using someone as an amenity were quickly eradicated. He was a little surprised when Mycroft brought up the sleeping arrangements.

"I'll be staying here tonight, Sherlock."

Greg glanced over at Sherlock and saw small but distinct changes in his facial expression. _Jealousy? Disappointment? Fear? (Fear? Why on earth…?) This is going to be a lot more complicated than I'd realised._ He didn't have time to think about the implications.

"I'll leave the choice of your sleeping arrangements up to you, Sherlock. You may join us or not, as you wish."

Sherlock gave Greg an inscrutable look and then glanced back at Mycroft. "I'll stay, thanks."

Mycroft left to retrieve his pyjamas from his room.

Once he was alone with Greg, Sherlock hissed in a low whisper, "I say this as his brother, not his employee: be _very_ careful how you tread. He's more fragile than he appears, and if you hurt him, I promise I will hurt you."

_I know, and believe me, I don't doubt it._ "Okay. I get it." _And I'm starting to understand where your emotions are coming from._ Sherlock was fiercely protective of his brother, and Greg suddenly felt like he was being chaperoned. "I promise you, I'm not taking this lightly. This isn't something I do…"

Sherlock cut him off. "Good."

The conversation came to an abrupt halt as Mycroft walked through the door in crisp, Egyptian-cotton pyjamas. The sudden silence hung in the air, and Mycroft gave Sherlock a _look._

Sherlock met Mycroft's gaze for a few long seconds, then his eyes dropped in submission.

Greg could have sworn they were communicating telepathically.

"I thought it might be nice to go to Anstey's Cove tomorrow and have a picnic. It's secluded, and Sherlock makes such a _lovely_ table. And I can show you some of the caves I was telling you about."

_Sherlock on all fours as a table. That's not the only thing that position would be good for._ Despite the emotional upheaval of the evening, he felt his cock twitch at the thought.

"Gregory, would you like a drink before bed? Or perhaps Sherlock can provide something equally relaxing…"

"Both sound lovely, but only if you're having some. I'd hate to be the only one…"

Mycroft glanced at his statuesque brother – his dressing gown half off his pale shoulder, exposing a lightly-muscled chest. "I'd love to join you, thank you. Sherlock, some more scotch, please." He turned back to Greg. "How would you like him?"

The possibilities ran riot through Greg's mind, but one got stuck in his head and stayed there. "I'd like that lovely arse of his. And then, I'd like to watch you dominate him. Whether or not you let him come is your decision."

Mycroft licked his dry lips. There was no question as to how he'd take his brother – roughly and on all fours. It was Sherlock's favourite position, and he deserved it after his not-entirely-justified punishment earlier. But the thought of Greg watching them – and for that matter, of being able to watch Greg take his brother – was doing marvellous things for his own erection. The lingering embarrassment was gone, replaced by a hungry, rushing need.

Sherlock gave Mycroft and Greg their glasses of scotch, shucked his dressing gown, and knelt on all fours on the floor.

Greg was startled for a moment. _How does he know which position…?_ He realised what was going on as Mycroft placed his drink on Sherlock's rigid back. _Table. Right._ He placed his own drink next to Mycroft's.

Mycroft caught Greg staring. "He's lovely, isn't he…"

Greg nodded in mute agreement. In all his years as a Dom, he'd never used a human table – and even if he had, he doubted they'd have looked like a marble statue – a deliciously obscene marble statue, at that.

Mycroft's smile grew devilish. "That's the only problem with human furniture though. It's so tempting to _torture_ them." He reached down and lightly stroked the thick, heavy cock that dangled between Sherlock's legs.

Greg watched, impressed. Sherlock briefly twitched at Mycroft's initial touch, but otherwise didn't move. There was a look of steady concentration on his face as his brother fondled him.

"You try. He loves a good challenge."

_Oh, I'll give him a challenge._ Greg slid off the sofa and lay on his back on the floor. He positioned himself so his head was directly beneath Sherlock's erection. His tongue snaked out and delicately lapped a glistening drop of pre-ejaculate from the head of his cock. Sherlock's body stayed rigid, but he let out a small moan. After tasting the salty fluid, he started massaging Sherlock's fraenulum with slow strokes of his tongue. _I don't know what that does to him, but it would have me writhing around like a cheap whore._

Despite Sherlock's concentration, his body betrayed him. While he was able to prevent large movements that would spill the drinks, he started trembling all over from the intense stimulation on his cock. When he felt his brother's wet tongue pressing at his puckered hole, he cried out and his body bucked violently.

Mycroft was ready, both hands swiftly removing the crystal glasses from Sherlock's back before they crashed to the floor. "Oh, little brother – not a very good showing for our guest. You clearly need more practice." Mycroft handed Greg his glass. "You can do that later, though. Please prepare yourself for Gregory." Mycroft looked at Greg. "Would you like to watch?"

Greg nodded. _Fuck, yes._

"You like taking him a bit rough, yes?"

Greg bit his bottom lip. _Yes. You could say that._ The memory of forcing his thick cock into Sherlock's tight arse that afternoon made his head spin. He realised Mycroft was still waiting for an answer. Still chewing on his lip, he nodded again.

"You'll prepare yourself in here, in front of us. Not too much, mind. Greg wants you to feel it when he ploughs that pretty arse of yours."

Sherlock left the room and came back with a towel, lube, and two silicone dildos. The largest one was still smaller than Greg's impressive girth. Clearly, Sherlock wanted it a little rough as well.

"He's still cleaned out from earlier. I usually give him his enemas – he's not nearly thorough enough, and I do enjoy making him take them. But I let him stretch himself out – I must admit I love watching the little slut fuck himself on cheap toys."

Greg sucked in a breath at Mycroft's words. Hearing that language come out of that refined mouth – _fucking hell._ He palmed his straining erection and tried not to think about fucking Mycroft. With any luck, there would be more of that later.

Sherlock smiled to himself as he lay on the towel on his stomach. Mycroft's language didn't usually get filthy until much later. It was going to be a good night. He was looking forward to having both of them take him on his knees, even if it wasn't at the same time. _That's what Mycroft will do. Given the chance, he always does. He likes that position as much as I do._

Sherlock pulled one leg to the side, putting his tight hole within easy reach of his hand. He squeezed a generous amount of lube onto his fingers, and without any further preparation, he roughly shoved in two at once. He gasped as they breached his hole.

Greg raised an eyebrow at Mycroft.

Mycroft just shook his head, his voice filled with mock resignation. "Such a little pain whore, even by his own hand…"

Sherlock moaned openly as he added another finger and started to fuck himself vigorously.

"Enough of that, little brother. I told you to prepare yourself, not pleasure yourself."

Sherlock grudgingly removed his fingers and slicked up the larger of the two toys. _I see no reason to prolong this._ He held the slicked-up toy firmly as he braced himself and pushed against it.

Greg watched in fascination as Sherlock's arse slowly opened and the toy disappeared inside him.

Once the toy was buried to the hilt, Sherlock paused to let his body adjust.

Mycroft gave a low chuckle. "Oh, so now you're a selective pain slut? I don't think so, Sherlock." Quickly kneeling over his brother, he grabbed the base of the toy, pulled it almost all the way out, and shoved it roughly back in.

Sherlock groaned as Mycroft fucked him with the dildo at a punishing speed.

As suddenly as he'd started, Mycroft pulled the toy out and left his brother panting heavily on the floor. "I think you're ready, brother-mine – get on your knees."

Sherlock scrambled to his knees, his arse shiny with lube and still slightly open from the fucking.

Mycroft, somehow managing to look dignified despite the raging hard-on beneath his cotton pyjamas, nodded at Greg.

Greg felt like he'd forgotten how to speak. "Um, I could just watch, Mycroft. God. The two of you with that toy is one of the hottest things I've ever seen." Just seeing them – the raw sexual energy of it – made him want to fuck until he forgot his name. Sink his teeth into someone's shoulder. _Mycroft's_ shoulder.

Mycroft just smiled and nodded towards Sherlock, politely. "Please…"

"No." Greg was off the sofa and straddling Mycroft's legs, pushing him back against the sofa with strong, tanned arms. His breath was ragged, and he was having a hell of a time talking. "I know Sherlock gets all the attention, but fuck, Mycroft, you _are_ Sex."

Mycroft barely had time to register his surprise before Greg's mouth was on his – hot and needy and desperate. He felt Greg's hardness pushing against his stomach, and what was left of his composure evaporated as he pulled at Greg's dressing gown, feeling an immediate need for _more contact_ – anything – just _more._

Greg obliged by raking his fingernails forcefully down Mycroft's chest, pushing him back harder into the sofa and leaving angry red marks on his skin. Mycroft arched his back at the delicious pain and groaned around Greg's hungry kisses, all thoughts of self-control gone.

Greg finally pulled back and stared at Mycroft. "You're going to fuck your brother. Hard. And I'm going to watch you, because the two of you together is like nothing I've ever seen. And I'm going to fuck his mouth while you do it. If either of you have a problem with this, I want to know about it. Now."

Mycroft shook his head, too turned on to speak.

Greg's gaze was still fixed on Mycroft as he spoke. "Sherlock. Problem?"

"God, no."

"Good."

Greg climbed off Mycroft's lap and pulled him to his feet. With one quick motion, he grabbed the lapel of Mycroft's pyjamas and yanked it open. Buttons flew in all directions, ricocheting off the wall. Mycroft didn't know whether to be turned on or horrified by the sartorial crime. Greg solved the problem for him, saying, "We'll make Sherlock sew them back on later. Naked." He grinned, and his eyebrows darted up briefly. "It'll be fun." Greg pulled down Mycroft's pyjama bottoms and grabbed his now-naked arse, giving it a firm squeeze before nipping at Mycroft's lower lip. His facial expression had changed back to one of unmitigated lust. "Bloody hell, Mycroft. You have no idea what you do to me."

Mycroft was starting to get _some_ idea, and it was making him a little weak.


	9. Complications

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sex with more than one person is never easy. More than two is damned near impossible.

Greg shrugged off his dressing gown as he walked over to Sherlock. He was kneeling on all fours, licking his lips and looking hungry. He grabbed Sherlock's hair and pulled his head back. "Okay, you little slut, can you come from fucking alone, or do you need a hand on that pretty cock of yours?"

Sherlock huffed. "I can come just by thinking about it."

"Good. Because all I want Mycroft to worry about is fucking that tight arse of yours until you scream." He looked thoughtful for a second, then spoke again, his voice oozing sarcasm. "Oh no, wait. Your mouth will be filled with my cock. I guess we'll both just pound you until we're done. Don't worry, you can always _think_ your way to orgasm later." Greg pulled his straining erection away from his body and forced it in Sherlock's mouth before he could come up with a response.

Mycroft moaned as he watched Greg's thick cock disappear into his brother's mouth, the rich sense memory of it forming in his head. _He's so good with his mouth._ He was struck by the incongruity of the thought – it consisted equally of lust and of pride in his brother's abilities. _Sexual desire and brotherly affection._ He placed the head of his cock against his brother's slick hole. _That about sums it up, really._ He glanced at Greg, who was watching him with rapt attention, his cock almost (but not entirely) forgotten in Sherlock's mouth. Grabbing Sherlock's hips, he slammed into his brother in one, hard thrust.

The sheer force of it pushed Greg's cock deep into Sherlock's throat, and he tried not to gag.

He certainly had all of Greg's attention on him _now._ Sherlock concentrated on relaxing his throat, though Mycroft's assault on his arse threatened to make any sort of coherent thought impossible. Greg pulled back a little, and he used the opportunity to impress Greg with his tongue. Being able to take a cock down your throat was one thing – the finesse of actually _fucking_ someone with your tongue while you sucked them off – that was another entirely. He was good at this. God knows he'd practised enough on Mycroft. He could get his brother off just with his tongue when Mycroft would let him – which wasn't often. Mycroft had a thing for fucking his throat, and he suspected Greg was going to as well, so he had to prove how good he was while he had the chance.

Greg had his fists in Sherlock's hair and was about to take his pleasure into his own hands – fucking someone's throat was certainly one good way to get off – but Sherlock's tongue, swirling around his cock, promised something more sublime. "Oh… you _are_ good at that. Look at you. So desperate to show me how talented you are. God, you're such a little slut. You enjoy this, don't you?"

Sherlock managed to nod his head in agreement. _No point in denying it._

"This is a rare treat, isn't it, little brother? It's not often you get to have both of your holes filled like this." He rammed his cock into his brother's arse, completely derailing Sherlock's precision assault on Greg's cock.

 _So much for subtlety._ He glanced up at Greg. His head was tipped back and he was breathing hard. _Lightweight. Don't you dare come – I'm not done with you yet._ He pulled his head off Greg's cock, counting on the element of surprise to free himself of Greg's fists. Dark-brown eyes whipped down to stare at him. _Now he's paying attention_. He got out, "Both of you, remember?" right before Greg's cock took up semi-permanent residence in his mouth.

Greg smiled and looked up at Mycroft. "Jesus. He's helpful, too. His mouth felt so good I was getting lost in it, but I think we should oblige him." They started pounding into Sherlock at the same time, the force of it buckling his lithe body each time they pushed in.

"That's it… take it, brother-mine. Take it all." Mycroft's gaze shifted hungrily over Sherlock's body, absorbing every detail and storing it for later. "You love it, don't you – being filled with so much cock like this?"

Sherlock saw no point in trying to answer. It was obviously a rhetorical question. Besides, his mouth was full.

Greg and Mycroft started to find a rhythm now, each dual thrust filling Sherlock beyond belief. His brain struggled to keep up with the overwhelming sensory input, but somehow he was managing. He'd trained his mind to retain control while he was getting fucked, and he'd gotten good at it over the years. The only person he ever let go with was Mycroft.

They were alternating their thrusts now, and his body swayed back and forth in time to their rhythm – a hot wet passage between the two of them. He felt Mycroft's hand brace harder against him as Greg pulled Mycroft in for a kiss. _They're kissing._ His jealousy spiked – Mycroft was _his._ He thrust his hips back violently against his brother, breaking their kiss, not caring if it brought punishment. Punishment meant attention. Attention from Mycroft.


	10. Reprieve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft deals with Sherlock, and Greg deals with Mycroft.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft's hard slap on his arse reverberated through Sherlock's body.

Greg pulled out of his mouth and crouched in front of him. "What's your damage? Jealous? Not getting enough attention?" Sherlock gave him a contemptuous sneer.

Mycroft grabbed Sherlock's hair and pulled his brother to his feet. "How dare you." His voice, though quiet, seethed with anger.

_Oh._ This wasn't the sort of attention he'd wanted. _I didn't think he'd be this angry. I can get away with more when it's just us._

Mycroft's gaze cut through him like a knife. "Tell me, what stunning conclusion did you reach that precipitated this? That because I'm with someone else I'm going to leave you?"

Sherlock dropped his eyes, unable to answer. _Yes._

Mycroft pulled his hair back again, forcing eye contact. "Answer me." There was a trace of softness in his voice that hadn't been there a second ago, but he was still furious.

Sherlock's voice was barely a whisper. "Yes." He knew better than to say anything more. _You're mine, Mycroft. (I can't lose you. You're all I have.)_ But he could think it, and be thankful his brother couldn't hear his thoughts.

But a brother that intelligent might as well be telepathic.

"There's no ownership here, Sherlock. Not on either side. We're both here because we choose to be. Throwing a ridiculous tantrum in the middle of some amazing sex – of which, I must point out, you were also the beneficiary – is not the best way to show your affection. Don't be so bloody insecure." _There's a reason I'm still here._

Mycroft turned to Greg, still standing quietly off to the side. "I'm so sorry, Gregory. Would you like us to leave?"

Greg actually laughed. "Not bloody likely! I just want Sherlock to apologise, and then we can carry on where we left off, as far as I'm concerned."

Sherlock turned to Greg, grateful for the chance to salvage the evening. "I'm sorry, Greg. My outburst was uncalled for."

"Not me, you prat. Your brother. I want you to apologise to him."

_Oh. Right._ "I'm sorry, Mycroft. And as much as it kills me to admit it, you're right, you know. I am being completely insecure. But I am truly sorry. Please, forgive me."

Mycroft's heart ached. The whole situation with his brother was always so delicate, so prone to disaster. It wasn't just Sherlock's fault – he needed this as much as Sherlock did, and it drove them both to acts of stupidity. It just sometimes seemed like Sherlock's were more stupid and more frequent. Whatever this _(exciting)_ thing with Gregory turned out to be, he wasn't going to abandon Sherlock and run off to London. Clearly, he needed to make that more apparent to Sherlock, but there would be time for that later.

"I forgive you, Sherlock. But actions have consequences, you must be punished."

Sherlock sighed with relief and smiled. "Thank you, Mycroft." He'd been forgiven. Punishment was good. Punishment was atonement.

Mycroft thought for a minute, weighing his options.

"You have a choice, Sherlock. Ten hard strokes with the ventilated paddle, or nothing but washing-up for the rest of the weekend."

Sherlock's stomach flipped at the mention of the paddle: the one with the holes in it – no cushion of air to soften the blow. It would hurt – really, really hurt. But the alternative was worse: banished to the kitchen – no sex, no attention. Besides, it wasn't often he got to test his limits with pain. He was curious to see how well he handled it. There was no question in his mind as to which he'd choose.

"The paddle."

"Very well."

Mycroft turned to Greg. "I can punish him later. There's no reason this should interrupt your evening."

"I _would_ like to finish that kiss."

Mycroft leaned in and kissed Greg.

After getting pleasantly lost in it for a while, Mycroft pulled back. "Sherlock. Wrist and ankle cuffs. Set up the sawhorse and get out the paddle. Then kneel on the floor and await your punishment."

"Yes, Mycroft." He left to set up the equipment, dread and anticipation fighting it out in his brain. Anticipation was winning.

Mycroft gave Greg a slightly shy look. "Where were we?"

Greg walked Mycroft backward until his legs hit the sofa and pushed him down onto it. He straddled Mycroft's lap, buried his fingers in Mycroft's hair, and drew him in for a long kiss. He worked his other hand between their bodies and found Mycroft's cock – half-hard again from the kiss, and slowly started to stroke him.

Mycroft let his mind go slack. The unpleasantness with Sherlock had been dealt with. He could concentrate on – no, enjoy – this. He marvelled at the softness of Greg's lips and the gentleness of his touch. It filled his body with a warm glow, not just of arousal, but of security and comfort.

Greg nipped at Mycroft's lips, enjoying the breathy sighs this drew from him. Then he moved to his ear, his tongue teasing the outer edge – Mycroft squirmed languidly in response. _God, he's so sensual._ Greg's teeth tugging gently on his earlobe resulted in a low groan and Mycroft hips arched against his. _Good to know._ He explored Mycroft's neck, teasing and tasting, mapping the spots that caused the sharp intakes of breath and the low, drawn-out moans.

Mycroft wasn't used to this – the long, slow sweetness of exploration. He suddenly felt like he should reciprocate – the thought cutting through the sensual haze – but when he moved his hands to Greg's body, Greg gently pinned them to the sofa.

"Let me explore."

Mycroft nodded mutely in response.

Greg made his way down Mycroft's chest and torso, his hands and mouth playing with the soft ginger curls and teasing his erect nipples. _No pain._ He didn't want to pull Mycroft from this state. Mycroft's head was thrown back, his mouth open and a look of relaxed bliss softening his features. Greg smiled. _It's nice to see him let go._

Sherlock put the cuffs on in the bedroom and quietly set up the sawhorse. He didn't want to disturb Mycroft. He knelt without a sound and watched them. The spark of jealousy from earlier was still there – just pushed down beneath layers of analysis and self-control. _Lestrade is certainly different. I've never seen Mycroft open up to anyone else like this. (No one except me.)_ The thought stung a little, but he pushed it back. _Mycroft isn't leaving. (I'm not going to let him.)_ He knew it was true – he wouldn't give up his brother without a fight. This line of thought wasn't helping. _Will I be able share him with Lestrade? (Interesting. You've never been able to share before.) But if I could…_ There was no quick response to that. Perhaps.

Sherlock's thoughts turned to Lestrade. _He certainly knows what he's doing as a Dom, and if Mycroft's currently blissed-out state is any indication, that's not all he's good at._ He hadn't run screaming at the revelation about their relationship. _A pleasant surprise really – societal taboos are so boring._ He'd also remained calm when he found out their relationship was not just sexual, but emotional. _Very emotional. Practically co-dependent._ Sherlock allowed himself a smile at that. He was under no illusions as to the complete lack of _normalcy_ in their relationship. Lestrade didn't seem to be treating this as a fling. _Mycroft definitely isn't._ He didn't even pretend to comprehend that. Emotional bonding with complete strangers was definitely not his area. _I wonder what Greg's reaction will be to Mycroft's past with Jonathan. Even Mycroft's emotional walls aren't that high – not if he gets serious about this._ Besides, at some point Mycroft was going to want to indulge in pain play, he was sure of it, and then there would be no hiding it.

Greg manoeuvred Mycroft onto his back so he was reclined along the length of the sofa. His mouth continued its exploration, and his hands roamed everywhere except Mycroft's erection. He was saving that for later.

Mycroft made soft sounds of protest at the new position. _Not enough contact._ "Come back…"

"Not leaving." He reached a hand up and placed it on Mycroft's side, the firm contact reassuring Mycroft as Greg's mouth explored the sensitive skin of his inner thighs.

Mycroft gasped at the touch of Greg's tongue, so intimate despite the relatively mundane location.

Greg moved up further, licking and then sucking on Mycroft's balls. When he took one into his hot, wet mouth, Mycroft made an incoherent noise that most definitely wasn't in the dictionary. Greg finally placed his hand on Mycroft's cock, and the twin sensations had him writhing with pleasure. He pulled his mouth off with a wet 'pop' and licked a long stripe between his hairless balls. _Shaved? Waxed? Interesting. Definitely good._ "I want your cock in my mouth, Mycroft Holmes. Do I have your consent?" He couldn't hide the cheeky tone in his voice - he loved negotiating with someone when they desperately wanted him to get on with it.

"Oh good God, yes. Please."

Sherlock watched, as if keeping score at a tennis match. _Sense of humour. Good._

Mycroft gasped as he felt Greg's mouth on him. This wasn't like the last time – all desperate need and groping for an orgasm that Greg kept denying. It was a steady build-up of desire and sensation. It was delicious and subtle, and Greg's tongue was driving him out of his mind. _Christ._ "Not going to last long… nghhh… if you keep that up."

Greg pulled his mouth off long enough to answer. "You don't have to. Come for me. I want to taste you."

_'I want to taste you.' Fuck._ Mycroft's head flew back and he let out a guttural cry as the orgasm rushed through him. Greg's mouth was back on him, savouring every drop as Mycroft came in hot spurts down his throat. Mycroft's body was still thrumming when he felt Greg's tongue cleaning him off.

Greg crawled back up to him with a cheeky grin on his face. "Wanna taste?"

Mycroft pulled him in for a greedy kiss, not caring if it wasn't polite. _He did offer._ The taste of himself, mixed with the new and yet already familiar taste of Greg, made him smile. When he eventually pulled away, he looked into Greg's dark eyes with something approaching wonder. "Thank you."

The underlying energy of it left no doubt – Mycroft wasn't just referring to the blow-job. Greg wondered – not for the first time, and not unhappily – what he was getting himself into.


	11. Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock receives his punishment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains a fairly graphic consensual paddling scene.

They pried themselves off the sofa and found their dressing gowns. Greg was still aroused, but making Mycroft come had been extremely satisfying, and he didn't care if he was hard. He was eager to get Sherlock's punishment out of the way so he could get on with the 'curling up in bed with Mycroft' portion of the evening.

Sherlock, as directed, was cuffed and kneeling next to the padded sawhorse.

Mycroft shook his head briefly to clear his mind of the endorphin haze. He was thankful Sherlock was behaving. He did look contrite, and he had certainly stayed quiet. _That still doesn't get him out of punishment, though._ "Assume the position, Sherlock."

Sherlock bent over the sawhorse, pushing his half-hard cock to the side so it wouldn't be trapped beneath his stomach.

Mycroft clipped the wrist and ankle cuffs in place. "This is going to hurt, Sherlock. It's punishment. I don't expect even _you_ to get off on it. You're getting ten strokes. You may call safeword if you have to, but I believe you can do this. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mycroft." He had no intention of backing out.

"Gregory, will you assist me?"

"Of course."

"Are you ready?"

"Yes, Mycroft."

Mycroft nodded at Greg, who picked up the ventilated wooden paddle.

Greg took a deep breath. He didn't envy Sherlock this at all. He'd been beaten with one of these, and it was in no way erotic. _It fucking hurt_.

Sherlock was bent double over the sawhorse, his finely-toned arse once again pale – all traces of the earlier spanking gone. _I'm afraid this one is going to hurt a lot longer, Sherlock._ Greg drew back the paddle and let it fly. It landed with a sharp 'crack' on Sherlock's arse. Greg held it there for a moment – pulling it back too quickly caused suction at the ventilation holes – the skin would get caught in the holes and cause blisters.

Sherlock cried out at the sudden, burning pain. He'd known it would hurt, but _bloody hell_ … He gasped and sucked in a deep breath. _I can do this._

Greg paused to let Sherlock catch his breath, but then he wondered if it would be better just to give them all at once.

The second stroke rained fire onto Sherlock's other cheek. He managed not to cry out this time – he knew how much it was going to hurt – but the pain made his eyes water. He raised his head from his inverted position. _Mycroft._ He wanted to see Mycroft – wanted to know he was there. His brother's long, pale feet were right in front of him. _Mycroft._ He dropped his head back down, and then he felt his brother's hand rest lightly on the back of his neck. _Mycroft. I can do this, Mycroft._

Greg gave the next three blows in quick succession. They were going to hurt, and he didn't want to draw them out.

Sherlock couldn't keep silent this time, his loud cry turning to gasping, heaving breaths as Greg's final blow landed. Mycroft's fingers were in his hair, and his brother's voice whispered in his ear, "Very good, little brother. You're halfway there." Sherlock leaned into the touch, craving Mycroft's attention and reassurance – thankful for any sensation that distracted him from the searing pain. Mycroft kissed his head and then he was gone.

Mycroft knew all too well how painful and brutal this paddle could be. He'd bought one when he was with Jonathan – both of them were too young and cocky to ask for advice on how to use it, and Mycroft had ended up with horrible blisters after its first use. He hadn't been able to sit for days. As he held it, he almost lost his nerve, memories of his time with Jonathan clouding the present. _In some ways, I should thank him, I suppose…_ He looked at his brother, his arse a painful-looking shade of crimson, and cleared his mind. "Are you ready, Sherlock?"

"Yes." Sherlock hoped his brother wouldn't hear how close he was to tears. He felt Greg's hand on his shoulder. The contact felt good.

Mycroft took a deep breath and gave the blows in quick succession, pausing only long enough to prevent blisters.

Sherlock tried to stay silent, but it wasn't possible. Each blow brought a cry of pain, and sobbing breaths. He wasn't really aware that it was over. The pain dulled a little, but it didn't go away. He was sobbing quietly when Mycroft unhooked his cuffs and drew him into his arms.

"Shh. It's over, little brother. You did so well. I'm so proud of you." He kissed Sherlock's forehead and smoothed his sweaty curls away from his face, murmuring endearments into his brother's hair.

Greg placed a dressing gown around Sherlock's shoulders and steadied him, making sure not to accidentally brush his tender arse.

Sherlock's breath was still ragged in his throat, but he relaxed into Mycroft's strong embrace as his brother's voice soothed him. When he opened his eyes, Mycroft was right there, gazing at him.

"How are you, love?"

Sherlock managed a weak smile. "Sore. But I did it, My."

Mycroft smiled at his brother's satisfaction. "You did, and you took it so well. I'm proud of you. Come on, let's get you onto the bed. Gregory, there's an ice pack in the freezer, could you get it, please?"

Mycroft half-carried Sherlock to the bed and gently set him on the feather duvet on his stomach. Greg handed him the flexible ice pack, covered with a soft towel. "I'm going to put an ice-pack on you. Deep breath…"

Sherlock moaned with relief when the towel-wrapped ice pack touched his burning arse. Mycroft covered him with the dressing gown.

Mycroft motioned to Greg. "Would you mind getting some warm towels, and some hot, damp flannels, please?"

"'Course." Greg disappeared into the toilet.

Mycroft crawled up onto the bed beside his brother. Sherlock shifted to look at him, a fragile expression on his features. Cradling his face with his hands, Mycroft kissed his forehead, and then gently kissed his lips. "I love you, Sherlock. I'm not going anywhere. I never will."

Sherlock curled against Mycroft's chest. "I love you too, My. I'm sorry I got jealous."

"Don't apologise, love. You already did, and I forgave you. Neither of us was expecting this." It seemed rude to say it – _'neither of us was expecting Greg.'_ "I should have talked with you before things got so complicated. I got a bit caught up in everything. I'm sorry."

Sherlock smiled against his chest. "You're always _so_ impulsive... I think I can forgive you this once."

"Thank you, Sherlock." He kissed the top of his head and held him tighter, silently thankful that he hadn't ruined things between them.

Greg appeared with hot flannels and a stack of fluffy white towels.

Mycroft took one of the flannels and gently cleaned Sherlock's face and neck.

"Feels good…"

"More?"

"Mm."

Motioning for Greg to help him, Mycroft started to wipe down Sherlock's exhausted body with the warm cloths.

"Lay on your side, love."

Sherlock gingerly pulled up one leg so he wouldn't have to balance on his side. The ice pack fell off, but his arse was already feeling a lot better. Mycroft worked on his chest while Greg worked on his back, their touch grounding him and bringing him back. They dried him off, and then Greg's strong hands were soothing the sore muscles in his legs. He watched Greg as he gently massaged his calf muscles. _He's surprisingly gentle for a Dom, but then, the good ones can be._

Greg felt Sherlock's stare, and looked up to see a surprisingly shy smile. All traces of the jealous sneer from earlier were gone. Greg smiled back. "How's your arse doing?"

Sherlock gingerly touched it and winced a little. "Better than it was, I think."

Greg looked at him with respect. "You took it well. Those things hurt like fuck."

Sherlock gave him a look of surprise. "You're a switch?"

"No, but I won't use a toy I haven't experienced from the other side."

"I thought Mycroft was the only one with that rule."

This time, Mycroft was the one getting the look of respect from Greg.

Mycroft's usual unflappable demeanour suddenly got a lot more… well… flappable. "Um, food. You should eat something, Sherlock. I'm going to get us some biscuits. I'll be back in a moment." He hurried out of the room, the door to the suite closing seconds later.

Sherlock failed to conceal a smirk. "I think he was blushing."

Greg giggled. "I think you're right."

Sherlock's face went serious. "Look, Greg, I'm sorry for earlier. I was jealous, but I had no right to take it out on you."

"S'okay. I should have been more aware of the, um… dynamics."

"Incest."

"Relationship."

Sherlock smiled. "Mm, yes. Relationship. It's just been the two of us for years, now. It's complicated."

"What isn't, really?"

Sherlock nodded. "Thank you."

Greg gave him a confused look. "For?"

"For accepting this for what it is. For not running screaming. For lots of things." _I think Mycroft needs this._ He didn't want to say it aloud.

Greg just smiled. "Anytime."

Sherlock got up off the bed, curious to see if his arse was glowing. It certainly felt like it was glowing. He pulled the dressing gown to the side and looked over his shoulder in the mirror. He winced at the sight – it was crimson, and parts of it were probably going to bruise.

"How's it feel now?"

"Surprisingly, better than it looks." He sat, tentatively, on the bed. It hurt, but not as badly as he'd expected.

The door to the suite opened, and Mycroft entered bearing a tray of tea and biscuits – Jammie Dodgers _(of course)_ , digestives, chocolate fingers, and Penguins.

Mycroft smiled at him. "It's good to see you up. How do you feel?"

"Not bad, considering. I think I'll avoid bicycles for a while, though."

Mycroft passed him a plate. "The tea still needs a few minutes, but have some biscuits."

"Thanks." He took a Jammie Dodger and bit into it, the sweetness of it spilling over his tongue. _So good._ Suddenly, he was ravenous. He helped himself to a Penguin and two digestives.

Mycroft gave him a bemused look. "If I'd known you were hungry, I would have brought real food."

"No, no. This is fine. Really." The sugar, the carbohydrates. It was _exactly_ what he needed.

Mycroft shrugged at Greg. "Usually I can't get him to eat anything…"

Tea was made and drunk, and biscuits were eaten. Sherlock proudly showed Mycroft his sore arse. Mycroft was even persuaded to sleep without his pyjamas. And then, as they were preparing for bed, an expression of devilish glee crossed Mycroft's features. "You know, Sherlock, I think we need to look into getting larger beds. I can't possibly see how all three of us will fit."

It was clear he was up to something, so Sherlock just smiled. "And?"

"I think you'll have to be the pillow."


	12. Pillow Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Greg try to use Sherlock as a human pillow.

Sherlock just looked at him. "The pillow."

"Yes. I don't see how we can possibly all fit in the bed. Besides, you'll make a lovely pillow."

"Oh, I don't know, Mycroft. Surely you'd be more appropriate to the task?" He eyed Mycroft's diet-honed midsection with a wry grin.

"Mm. Very amusing, Sherlock. However, it seems that the word 'amenity' is not in my job description. But I do believe you'll find it's in yours."

Sherlock cracked a slight smile. They both knew he'd be happy to comply, but it wasn't the same without the _banter_.

Greg was still getting his brain around the 'human pillow' concept. _It sounds far more interesting than the choices of 'hard', 'medium', and 'soft' you get on that 'pillow menu' at pricey hotels._ He'd certainly never seen 'human' on that menu. _Shame, that._

Greg failed to repress a laugh. "So, do we get the front or the back?"

Mycroft removed the down pillows from the bed. "That's entirely your choice, Gregory. Perhaps you'd like to try for yourself and decide which you prefer?"

"You're bloody right I would." His grin lit up the room. "Okay, Sherlock, arse up first."

Sherlock didn't even bother to feign irritation. It honestly sounded like fun. Climbing up, he spread his toned body across the top of the bed. His feet barely poked over the edge. He had to hand it to Mycroft – buying that ridiculously large mattress did turn out to be a brilliant idea. He rested his head on his folded arms and looked at them with a wicked smirk. "Well, are you just going to look?"

"God, Sherlock. I don't know how you ended up with an arse like that on a body like yours, but it's a gift." Greg lay on his back and adjusted himself so his head was on Sherlock's still-sore arse. "Hmm." He shifted onto his side. "It's certainly nice, but I think it's a little too high for a pillow. Turn over." He propped himself up so Sherlock could flip onto his back.

Sherlock winced a little as his arse touched the bed. That was definitely going to be sore tomorrow. He lay on his back as unselfconsciously as possible. Despite his usual bluster, there was something quite intimidating about having another man's head inches from your cock – at least, when it was in a non-sexual capacity. _What if I move during the night, and it flops onto his head?_ He imagined Greg's reaction, and his intimidation vanished, replaced by silent mirth. This _was_ going to be fun. Besides, his hipbones couldn't possibly make a comfortable pillow.

Greg shifted closer to the centre of the bed so he could rest his head on Sherlock's belly. "Ooh, lovely. Good height, too. Mycroft, c'mere and try this."

Mycroft crawled onto the bed with a grin. Something – propriety, a sudden shyness, some genetically British reserve, perhaps _–_ had him awkwardly positioning his head on Sherlock's chest. Even with Sherlock's lean proportions, it was obviously too high for a pillow.

Greg laughed. "Don't be silly. C'mere." He pulled Mycroft closer and kissed him.

Mycroft suddenly forgot all about propriety, and, for that matter, the fact that he was using his brother's stomach as a pillow.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shifted to make himself as comfortable as possible. Clearly, these two were settling in for a while. He wondered if he was going to get any sleep, but he was still coasting on too much sugar to care.

When Greg and Mycroft's kiss deteriorated into contented nuzzlings, Sherlock silently thanked the gods of middle age that the two of them weren't ready for another round. To his smug satisfaction, and soon to his dismay, they turned their attentions to him.

Mycroft reached up and poked him in the gut. "I think you could use a few more of those biscuits, little brother."

"Mm. Ironic, isn't it? If only you didn't keep eating them all."

Mycroft rolled his eyes at Greg. "Oh, do grow up, Sherlock."

"You started it."

Greg eyed Sherlock with interest. "Maybe we could shift him 'round a bit. You know, distribute him better."

Before Sherlock could react, Greg grasped his legs and was manoeuvring them, trying to redistribute Sherlock's complete lack of body fat to his stomach. Mycroft started helping, trying to gauge if it was making a difference by gently pinching at his brother's belly. At least, that's what Greg _thought_ he was doing.

He was wrong.

After so many years with his brother, Mycroft could tell you everything about any square inch of Sherlock's body.

Including exactly where he was ticklish.

When Mycroft's teasing fingers first touched Sherlock's stomach, the result was electric. Sherlock doubled in half, nearly cracking Greg in the head with his knees.

"What the hell?" Greg was immediately thankful he'd had his hands on Sherlock's legs. His confusion turned to understanding as Mycroft pinned his brother to the bed, and tickled his stomach again.

"Mycroft, stop!" Sherlock half-laughed, half-wheezed at him.

"Is that your safeword, or do you just want me to stop doing _this_?" He attacked him with a new round of vicious tickling. Mycroft was looking at his brother with an expression of utter glee.

"Fuck… you. Evil. Bastard." Sherlock could barely speak, he was laughing so hard.

Mycroft looked at Greg, who was watching the complete age regression with amusement. "Get the soles of his feet. He loves that."

"No!"

Greg just grinned, having taken part in enough police work and punitive tickling to know what he was doing. He swiftly used his body to pin Sherlock's legs to the bed, leaving both hands free for slow, teasing circles on the soles of his long feet.

When the laughing turned to gasping, and the gasping started to sound suspiciously like hyperventilating, they let him up.

"You're both utter bastards." It wasn't much of an insult. It was difficult to sound intimidating while giggling like an idiot.

Mycroft handed him some water from the bedside table. It had somehow survived the ordeal of Sherlock's flailing limbs unscathed.

"Two against one really isn't fair." He drank the water greedily, still smiling. It had been years since he and Mycroft had tickled each other like that, but usually he at least stood a chance. "I'll get you when you're least expecting it, you know."

But he had no idea how soon that would be.


	13. Revenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets some inadvertent revenge for the tickling incident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience with my slow updates, and thank you to everyone who asked me to update this. :)
> 
> And of course, thanks to Deklava for the beta.

Greg had a tight hold on his collar as he knelt on all fours, Mycroft slamming into him from behind.

"That's what you need, isn't it?"

It was Mycroft. No… Greg. It was hard to tell, but it didn't matter.

Greg released his collar and gripped his hair, forcing the engorged head of his cock past his lips.

"Suck me off, and make it good."

That was definitely Greg.

He wondered if the physics of sex could be modelled. How much did the thrust from Mycroft impact the depth of Greg's cock in his throat? How much did his body absorb the thrust? Surely, it wasn't a lossless system. Then he wondered why he was worrying about physics as he was getting spectacularly fucked from both sides.

Then, both Mycroft and Greg had a hand on his cock, and he wasn't worrying about anything. He felt the orgasm wash over him as Greg and Mycroft evaporated.

Wait, what?

He woke up, slightly horrified. His hand was covered in semen, but worse still, so were Greg and Mycroft. He wasn't sure how he'd managed to wank in his sleep, without waking them up, but he had. But apparently, coming all over their faces as they slept on his stomach was a little more than their peaceful slumber could tolerate.

Mycroft's face twitched as if reacting to a fly landing on it. He subconsciously reached up to brush it away, and brushed his hand through the hot spunk on his forehead.

A small, irrational part of Sherlock's brain thought, 'perhaps if I lie still and don't giggle, he won't notice.'

Greg stirred as Mycroft started moving, and also brushed at a mass of warm fluid, just above his eye.

Sherlock sucked in his lips, and bit them - hard. _Just stay still. Maybe there's still a chance…_

"Bloody hell, what the…?"

"Oh, dear God."

Well, they were both awake now. No chance of them going back to sleep, then.

They both wiped their faces with the backs of their hands and turned on their sides to look at him.

"Oh, Sherlock. Really? You honestly thought this would be a good way of exacting your revenge for the tickling?"

"No, wait! It wasn't deliberate! I was dreaming, and it just happened, I swear."

Mycroft held his hand out to Sherlock. "Lick it off."

It was still vaguely warm, and Sherlock was grateful for that.

"Do you believe him, Mycroft?" Greg asked.

"I'm not sure it matters if I do. He just came all over our faces as we slept. Lick Greg clean too, Sherlock, and then clean yourself up."

"I swear Mycroft, I had no idea. I was having this dream about the two of you fucking me, and I must have been stroking myself in my sleep. I didn't realise until I woke up… I'm sorry."

Mycroft knew his brother all too well. "And what was your initial reaction?"

Sherlock paused, but knew better than to not respond to a direct question from his brother. "Actually, I thought it was hysterical. But," he added, quickly, "I swear it was _completely_ unintentional."

"Well, clearly you've had your fun, little brother. Gregory, what do you say we have a little fun of our own? Or, if you'd prefer, we can go back to sleep and punish him in the morning. It's your choice, of course. Either way, I can hardly allow you to leave our little establishment with the notion that our pillows ejaculate on your face. Or at least that they do so without properly apologising."

Greg snickered. _Mycroft could make reading the phone book sound posh. And funny._

Sherlock had already clambered off the bed and was kneeling on the floor, head bowed and hands behind his back, looking suitably contrite.

"You're not fooling me, Sherlock."

"What?"

"Even if it was inadvertent - something I'm still not sure I believe - you're already on your knees begging to be punished."

"It's not fair - if I wasn't, I'd be in trouble for that…" The whine in his voice practically guaranteed punishment of some sort. At least he hoped it would.

"Silence."

Greg glanced over at the penitent figure on the floor. "Oh, I don't know. I'm awake - we might as well have our way with him now. There'll always be more in the morning, I'm sure. Besides, it looks like our little pillow is getting aroused again. We wouldn't want it to happen again, now would we?"

"No, definitely not." Mycroft got off the bed and went to the cabinet, selecting a medium sized spreader bar and a set of wrist and ankle cuffs. "You're more than welcome to fuck him if you'd like, Gregory, but I'd also like to make sure there's nothing left for him to shoot, no matter what he dreams about for the rest of the night."

"Oh God. No, Mycroft, please."

"You're lucky I'll be letting you sleep at all. I considered tying you up the corner with that vibrating prostate massager for the rest of the night. _Now_ which sounds like the better option?"

"The milking," he said, sullenly.

Greg raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I'm looking forward to this. I've never actually seen it done."

"Oh, I'd be happy to teach you. And I'm sure Sherlock will be a willing subject." He smiled at Sherlock with devilish glee. "Won't you, Sherlock?"

"Yes, sir."

"Oh, cheer up, dear brother. It's not like it _hurts._ " He turned to Greg. "Quite the opposite really, but it does get fairly intense for the recipient." He stood in front of Sherlock. "Sit on your arse, I want to cuff your ankles."

Sherlock did as he was asked, and the sturdy black cuffs were cinched tight.

"Now, give me your hands."

When he was cuffed, Mycroft placed his hands beneath Sherlock's armpits and lifted him to his feet. He turned to Greg. "How uncomfortable do you want him to be?"

"Fairly comfortable. I think it probably was an accident, although he probably wishes he'd come up with the idea himself."

"Hm. My thoughts on the matter, too. Very well." He tossed one of the bed pillows on the floor. "Sherlock, on your knees, arse in the air. You may rest your head on the pillow. I'm going to cuff your wrists together, but at your head, not behind your back. You can thank Gregory for that."

"Thank you, sir. Thank you." He meant it, too. The other position was hell on his back.

"As for your legs, they're entirely too close together." Mycroft knelt down behind his brother and shoved his legs apart, attaching the spreader bar to the ankle cuffs. Mycroft looked up from the cuffs to see Sherlock's gorgeous arse spread wide in front of him. "Oh, isn't _that_ a lovely sight, Gregory?" Mycroft leaned in and licked a long stripe over Sherlock's hole with the flat part of his tongue.

Sherlock let out a yelp.

"Do I need to gag you?"

"No, sir."

"Mm. Shame. Still, I bet you'll make some lovely sounds as we do this." He handed Gregory a snap hook. "Could you attach this to his wrists, please? I'd hate to have him thrashing around."

Greg was still staring at Sherlock's exposed arse in appreciation. "Oh, right. Yes. Of course."

Mycroft stood. "I just thought of something. I'll be back in a moment."

He returned a few minutes later with a small bowl, about the size of a cereal bowl. Greg looked at him, puzzled, and Mycroft just smiled. "You'll see."

Sherlock was still in his refractory period from his last orgasm, but his cock was definitely interested in the proceedings.

"That's the beauty of this Gregory. It doesn't matter whether he's ready for another orgasm or not. He doesn't have any choice in the matter. It's a delicious sort of torture. Now, would you like to take his arse first?"

Greg looked at Sherlock's arse - still red and sore-looking from the beating of the previous evening. His twitching arsehole, so nicely on display, was inviting, but he wanted to be alert and on edge for this, not dulled by post-orgasmic bliss. "Thanks, but I'll take his mouth afterwards, if that's okay. I want to make sure I'm with-it enough to learn properly."

"Excellent." He placed the bowl on the ground underneath Sherlock's semi-hard penis. He turned to Greg with an explanation, "I wouldn't want to waste any. We'll have him drink it for us, later, as punishment."

Sherlock groaned, and Mycroft slapped him on the arse.

"Enough from you. The only thing I want to hear is a running commentary on what it feels like, so Gregory can get a better understanding of the technique. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Right. Latex gloves and lubricant. The gloves are mostly to prevent any damage from fingernails, but in this case, there's an element of humiliation involved. Besides, I do love the sound of a latex glove being snapped on." He grinned wickedly as the sound cut through the air.

Greg tried not to smirk.

"Now, plenty of lube, although this one probably wouldn't mind it if we didn't, but it does make things go much easier. Normally, you'd work up to using both fingers, but I really don't think that's necessary." He slowly and deliberately shoved two fingers deep inside his brother's arse.

Sherlock squirmed at the intrusion, and tried not to groan at the stretch and burn. "Just because I _can_ take two without preparation, doesn't mean it's easy, Mycroft."

Mycroft twisted them viciously. "I said, 'running commentary only'. Perhaps you need a third." He pulled them back out and pushed a third finger in, and Sherlock let out a yowl.

"Oh, do show some fortitude, Sherlock. Besides, if you'd keep your mouth shut…"

Silence.

"Much better, little brother." Mycroft pulled his fingers back out and returned to using two. "Now, Gregory. It's really fairly simple - crook your fingers downward as you pull out, and rub them along either edge of the prostate. The centre is much more sensitive - we'll save that for later - but this is how I usually start.

Sherlock started making a low, keening noise as Mycroft caressed the sides of his prostate.

"Tell Gregory how it feels, Sherlock."

"Sort of like I need to urinate, but then… oh God, Mycroft!"

Mycroft turned to Greg and smiled. "But then, not as much, apparently."

"It's so sensitive…"

"I could work his cock with my hand, of course, but this is far less satisfying. He'll feel some of the release of orgasm as I do it, but it'll leave him drained without all the work of us having to fuck him."

"Oh, I don't know - it wouldn't exactly be a burden."

"No, but it is three in the morning."

"Point taken."

"Once you build up some pressure on the sides, he'll probably start to get a bit more vocal. Once he sounds like he can't really take it - _then_ you start in on the centre of it. Sometimes it leaks out of him the entire time, and other times it'll come out in a rush, like an orgasm. It's more fun when it just leaks out - he'll never really get the intense feeling of release from it. Want to have a go?" He looked at Greg cheerfully and gave Sherlock's prostate a firm squeeze between his two fingers before pulling them out.

Sherlock made a strangled sort of noise that sounded like it was pleasure.

Mycroft snapped off the gloves and glanced down between his brother's legs. "Ah, see? It looks like we're having some success already." Ejaculate was oozing out of his semi-hard penis into the waiting bowl. "Gloves?"

Greg was apparently a very quick study. He braced his other hand on Sherlock's lower back as his fingers sought out the nub of his prostate. "I've done this while finger-fucking someone, but it never occurred to me to do _just_ this. It seems like it could be a wonderful form of punishment. Have you ever made him beg like this?" he asked, conversationally.

"Oh, yes. Especially when there's nothing left to milk. It gets so sensitive it's hard to tell if it's pleasure or pain."

"It's both," Sherlock uttered between gritted teeth, as Greg started applying more pressure.

"Oh, it looks like you're a natural," Mycroft said as he eyed the fluid gathering in the bowl. "Don't forget Sherlock - running commentary."

"Ngghh."

"Focus, Sherlock."

"Feels… like the rush of… sperm during… orgasm but… without the… uncoiling… release." Getting the sentence out had been difficult, and he was quite proud of himself for staying coherent, if a bit slow.

"Very good, Sherlock. He's still able to speak, Gregory. I think you should increase the pressure."

Greg smirked. "I think you're right." He held his hand tightly against Sherlock's lower back, and pulled his fingers firmly over the centre of Sherlock's exquisitely sensitive prostate.

"Gahhh…"

Not for the first time, Mycroft was glad he'd had the place soundproofed. "Oh, very nice." Mycroft squinted in approval at the amount of ejaculate in the bowl beneath his brother. He brought it up by his brother's head. "Perhaps you'd like some now, Sherlock? While it's still warm?"

The image went straight to Greg's gut. Being forced - no, politely asked - to lick your own ejaculate out of a bowl. And, it would appear, greedily doing so. _Fuck._ He went back to his task with renewed vigour.

"Hurry up, Sherlock. We can't have you wasting any."

Sherlock could barely concentrate on his mouth with the sensations Greg was causing in his arse. He lapped at the bowl mindlessly, trying desperately to clean it as quickly as possible so Greg could milk him more. It felt… wonderful… in an awful, unsatisfying sort of way. He really wished they'd just let him get off, but this was punishment, after all.

Mycroft replaced the bowl, and Greg continued. By the time Sherlock was begging him to stop, there was another rather significant quantity of semen in the bowl.

"I think that might be enough, what do you think, Gregory?"

"He looks like he's about to scream."

"Mm," Mycroft murmured, appreciatively. "Indeed he does. Lovely job."

Greg smiled, and binned the gloves. "Thank you."

Sherlock once again licked the bowl clean, and Mycroft wandered over to the cabinet.

"We did such a nice job of opening him up, I think we should make sure he stays that way. I think a nice large plug will do the trick. It'll keep him ready, in case you need to relieve a morning erection."

"Mm. I don't know. Perhaps I'd rather use you for that."

Mycroft felt the bottom fall out of his stomach as his mind told him to fall to his knees and beg for it. _Fuck propriety._ He did. "God, please. Anything you want, Gregory."

Greg smiled. "I'd still put the plug in there though. I'm sure he'll come in handy."

Mycroft rose to his feet somewhat unsteadily and selected a large plug. He lubed it up and thrust it into Sherlock's arse. He wasn't particularly gentle, and Sherlock almost cried out as it brushed across his abused prostate.

He turned to Greg, leaving Sherlock with his arse in the air. "Now, how would you like us to take care of _that_?" He glanced at Greg's lovely erection.

"Oh, I don't know. After what he did, I think he should take care of both of us. Don't you think?"

Mycroft smiled. "I certainly wouldn't complain."

Greg reached down and lifted Sherlock so he rested on his forearms. His wrists were still neatly cuffed on the pillow in front of him. Greg smiled down at him. "Comfy?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Good. Because I wouldn't want to you be uncomfortable when we start pounding that pretty throat of yours."

Sherlock smiled. "Thank you, sir."

Greg looked at Mycroft. "After you…"

"Actually, I'll be happy to let him lube me up a bit, but then I'd like to watch you fuck his throat, if that's alright."

Greg laughed, "Oh, I think I'm fine with that."

Sherlock was silently grateful he wouldn't be sucking both of them to completion, although a sore jaw wasn't the worst fate he could imagine.

Mycroft had to kneel in order to get his cock at the right height.

"Here, I'll hold his head for you."

Sherlock was about to protest that he could manage quite well on his own, thank you very much, when a strong hand, fisted in his hair, reminded him of why he loved being a sub. He moaned and opened his mouth to let the thick head of Mycroft's erection past his lips.

Mycroft fucked his gloriously wet, hot mouth for a few strokes and then pulled back out of Sherlock's mouth. "Make it wetter, Sherlock. Drool on it."

 _I don't 'drool'_ , he wanted to say, but he couldn't deny the humiliation of it was making his mouth water even as he fought the idea. Mycroft knew what he was doing.

Mycroft stood back up and Greg took his place, kneeling in front of Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled and said, "You're supposed to say 'Suck me off and make it good.'"

Greg raised his eyebrows. "Am I, now?"

"Well, you did in my dream."

"Well then: suck me off, and make it good."

Sherlock proceeded to do exactly that.

Mycroft, towering over both of them, was stroking himself expertly. As his orgasm started to coalesce in the near distance, he tapped Greg on the shoulder and moved in closer. A quick glance at Sherlock asked the question.

Greg got a huge smile on his face. "Oh, definitely."

Mycroft bent lower and gave a small moan as he came, his thick globs of ejaculate covering Sherlock's face and hair.

Sherlock's eyes went wide, but he knew better than to stop what he was doing or pull back.

Greg pulled out of Sherlock's mouth and rubbed his cock across Sherlock's face, dragging it through Mycroft's semen and smearing it across his lips. It was a glorious mess. He plunged back into Sherlock's mouth with Mycroft's taste on his cock. Right before he came, he pulled out of Sherlock's mouth and held his cock against Sherlock's face, watching it pulse its hot liquid across his cheekbones.

Mycroft knelt down in front of his brother and licked a wet stripe across Sherlock's cheek before kissing him. Sherlock moaned, fairly sure he could distinguish the taste of both of them on his tongue as Mycroft passionately took his mouth.

Greg unhooked Sherlock's ankle cuffs from the spreader bar while Mycroft disconnected the wrist cuffs and helped his brother to his feet. Using a clean towel, he gently wiped the mess from Sherlock's face and then cleaned up Greg. He took care of himself last.

"Shower or sleep?" Mycroft asked.

Greg glanced out the window. "It might be starting to get light out. I'd say sleep while we can. The shower will just wake us up."

"Mm. Sherlock, do you think you can be trusted this time?"

"I do believe I can."

"Good. After you then…"


	14. Working Backwards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gives Mycroft and Greg some time alone. (Or, awkward 'morning-after' is awkward. And then it's not.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to deklava and moonblossom for the beta work!
> 
>  **Warnings** : implied sibling incest

Mycroft awoke to warm breath on the back of his neck and Sherlock's soft skin beneath his head. It took him a while to reconcile the two. He hadn't woken up with anyone other than Sherlock in a very, very long time. And he wasn't particularly eager to recall the previous occasion.

He chased the memory out of his head as soon as it slipped in and forced himself to breathe. _This is not then._

Sherlock stirred and unfolded his arms from beneath his head like a praying mantis and stretched like a cat in the hot sun. He reached over and ran his fingers through Mycroft's surprisingly untamed hair. "Morning, My," he whispered.

Mycroft gave Sherlock's shoulder a squeeze and smiled at him. Greg's hand was resting lightly on his lower back, and he didn't want to wake him up by moving.

 _Greg, who'd been here since yesterday. A day. Really? Just a day?_ This was going to take a bit of processing. _How can things change this much in a day?_

"You alright?" Sherlock whispered.

"I… I think so. I'm not used to not knowing, honestly." It was somewhat terrifying to admit, especially to Sherlock. _I'm supposed to hold everything together here. Good God. What am I doing?_

"We'll get through this, My. This might change things, but it doesn't change us." Then, he added with a worried look on his face, "Does it?"

"Of course not, Sherlock," he murmured reassuringly. _Nothing could change that._ Greg was not, and never would be, someone to replace his brother. For better or worse, it was going to be a lot more complicated than that.

Greg shifted closer to Mycroft in his sleep, and his head slid from Sherlock's stomach onto the fine cotton sheets.

Sherlock carefully extracted himself from his pillow duties and crawled off the bed.

"It's a good thing he's a heavy sleeper," Mycroft whispered, just before Sherlock bent down and kissed him.

"I'll be in my room. I assume you'd like some time alone with him?"

He gave Sherlock a grateful smile. Whatever happened when Greg woke up, the dynamics with two people were going to be easier to navigate than the dynamics with three. "Thank you, brother-mine."

As Sherlock walked away from the bed, Mycroft noticed the large plug still in his arse, and the memories of the previous night hit him like a tonne of bricks.

He played back the entire evening in his head like a film, rewinding at times for the really good bits. Overall, there had been a lot of really good bits. The part where he'd lost it during the pain play, and then when Sherlock had gotten jealous - those, he could have done without. But considering he'd just broken every rule in his own book by sleeping with a paying guest, things could have gone a lot worse. _You're not just sleeping with him, you git. You're besotted._ He politely told his brain it could fuck off, and nestled back towards Greg's sleeping form.

He drifted back into a contented doze, and was awakened, sometime later, to a soft kiss at the base of his neck.

"Morning."

"Mm. Good morning, Greg," he replied. "And a lovely one, at that." The sun lazily picked out the patterns of the windowpanes on the thick carpet of the room.

"Our pillow buggered off, I see."

"He woke up a while ago. He thought we might like some time alone." Suddenly unsure of Greg's meaning, he quickly added, "I can call for him if you'd like."

A strong arm snaked possessively around his waist. "Mm, don't," Greg said, pressing another kiss to Mycroft's neck. "He had it right. I'd love some time alone with you. I assume that since you haven't buggered off to do hotel-running type things, you feel the same way?"

"Quite."

Greg rolled Mycroft over onto his back and said, "So I don't need to pack up and leave this morning for violating something in that lengthy contract you had me sign?"

"I think we'd be quite happy for you to violate both of us; preferably in all sorts of interesting ways," Mycroft said, rolling over onto his side to face Greg. He moved his hand onto Greg's stomach, and then teasingly moved it lower. "If you're so inclined, of course." His hand rubbed across Greg's erection and he added, "You seem… inclined."

Greg pushed him onto his back and straddled his thighs. "Oh, you'd better believe I'm inclined," he said as he pinned Mycroft's wrists to the bed.

Mycroft's reaction, for all his breeding and poise, came out as a fevered groan. The sheer _thrill_ of being pinned down like this made his head spin.

Greg kissed him, gently. Too gently. Even as the grip around his wrists tightened, Greg teased him with the sort of kiss young lovers might exchange with their parents watching.

Mycroft craned his elegant neck in an attempt to kiss Greg harder. With tongue, for God's sake.

Greg pulled back, smiled, and ran the tip of his tongue teasingly over his own upper lip. "What d'ya say?"

"Please…" he begged, his hips pushing up into Greg.

"Mm. I would've expected better manners from someone like you. Still, you did ask nicely." He bent over to kiss Mycroft again, and this time, the kiss was anything _but_ chaste.

Mycroft happily gave himself over to it as he got the kiss he'd wanted, and then some.

Greg pulled back to look at Mycroft; perhaps 'stare openly' would be a more appropriate phrase.

"What?" Mycroft asked, defensively.

"Nothin'. It's just that this is a good look for you," he nodded his head towards Mycroft's tousled hair - his hands were too busy pinning Mycroft's wrists to the bed. "It makes you look, I dunno, less posh. Besides, with some colour in your cheeks and those delicious lips… letting go agrees with you, Mycroft Holmes; you should do it more often."

"I've never been properly motivated, before now."

Greg went back to kissing him senseless, apparently intent on showing him how motivational he could be. They rutted against each other almost unconsciously as they both got lost in the kisses.

Mycroft finally flinched away when Greg started to lick and suck a bruise into his neck.

"I… I shouldn't. Other guests. It looks bad. Lower on my neck?"

"What if I bought up all the nights at the hotel until it healed? I've got the holiday saved up. I'm not sure I can just have a taste of you and leave. I want to savour you. Learn you." He gave Mycroft's neck a gentle bite. "And then possibly devour you."

Mycroft actually whimpered at the last statement. He was _not_ used to this sort of attention. He was certainly not used to feeling, well, _anything_ about a guest. And definitely not the warm, squishy feelings he was having towards Greg (to say nothing of the overtly submissive ones he was trying to ignore).

"W-what about Sherlock?" Mycroft stammered, trying to hang on to some semblance of control. "Surely you're here for him."

"Mm. Lovely boy, outstanding amenity, lots of fun. But, now that I'm here…" Greg's voice became more tentative, "he's more of a, well, secondary interest? If that's allowed…" he trailed off and raised his eyebrows in a question.

"I don't usually… I've never…" Mycroft couldn't seem to get the right words out. He didn't want Greg to think he did this with everyone. Anyone.

"Neither do I. Coming here is the first time I've ever done anything like this. Besides, you don't come off as a complete slut," he said with a cheeky grin. "Your brother on the other hand…"

"Yes, well. Quite. He does enjoy his job," Mycroft said with a grin. "Without him, this place would just be another B&B. Well, one with kinky toys, but still."

"So, can I stay for the week? Please? But only if you want me to."

"God. Um, yes. I'd like that. As long as you understand that Sherlock has to be… he and I… it's complicated."

"Understood," he said gently. "Is it alright if I fuck you senseless without him being here?" The tone was less flippant than the words implied.

Mycroft gave a short laugh. "Oh, yes. I think that will be just fine." Then, he added quietly, "We already discussed a few things while you were asleep. It's alright."

Mycroft wondered, not for the first time, what he was getting himself into. He suspected Greg was wondering the same thing.

They were both silent for a few long moments, and then Greg seemed to make a decision.

"God, you're delicious," Greg said as he leaned down to kiss him again. His mouth didn't stay there long; it started a long slow path towards his chest, briefly stopping to tongue the bruise he'd started on earlier and finish the job.

Mycroft writhed in delight; his neck was exquisitely sensitive, but it was so rarely… used. Greg still had his arms pinned next to his waist on the bed, and seemed to have no intentions of letting him up, which was just fine with him.

When Greg gently bit his nipple, Mycroft's hips involuntarily rose off the bed and pressed his body closer to Greg's.

"Oh… yes," he moaned. "That's good."

Greg released one of his hands, and dragged his fingernails down Mycroft's chest.

His body arched up to meet them and he bit his lip to silence an even louder, more embarrassing moan.

"Oh no you don't. I want to hear every little sound I'm going to fuck out of you. I don't want you holding back on me." He did the thing with his fingernails again, and this time Mycroft let his body respond - it was a moan so deep it was almost felt more than heard.

"You like that, then? A bit rough?" Greg bent down and bit gently at the spot near the top of his hip. "Tell me what you want. I want to hear it from that posh mouth of yours."

It was slightly mortifying, having to tell someone what you wanted them to do to you. He suspected that was sort of the point. "I like you holding me down, and I want you to fuck me. Hard."

"Mm," Greg smiled and almost laughed. "You want me to plough that gorgeous arse of yours, eh? Don't worry, I'll get there. I have some other things on my list I'd like to do first though."

He pinched Mycroft's nipple, hard, and used the element of surprise and pain to flip Mycroft onto his stomach. Years of training in the force had its benefits. He pinned him to the bed with his body.

Mycroft hadn't seen it coming, and he growled a low, "Yes…" at this new element of dominance. After a second or two, he pushed back, testing Greg's resolve to keep him there.

"Oh, you're not going anywhere, gorgeous." He pulled one of Mycroft's arms behind his back and used his weight to hold it in place.

Mycroft could feel Greg's erection prodding him; clearly they were both enjoying this. Greg started slowly rutting against him as he whispered in his ear, "You need this, Mycroft. You need someone to submit to every now and then. Someone to have their way with you." His teeth ran across the sensitive skin at the base of his skull, and then bit down, as if testing the waters.

Mycroft let out a quick cry of pain, but then returned to the now almost-constant moans and muttered profanities he'd never dream of using under normal circumstances. He forgot the question.

Greg ran his fingers through Mycroft's fine hair, and then clenched it between his fist and pulled Mycroft's head back. "You need this, don't you?" he said, almost menacingly.

"Hnggghh. Yes… please." Mycroft's groin throbbed and his erection pressed almost painfully against the sheets.

"That's what I thought."

And then Greg's hand was gone from his hair and he shifted further down his body. It was so quick, Mycroft didn't even have time to wonder what was next, and then Greg's strong hands were spreading his cheeks and Greg's tongue was buried in his arse.

Mycroft's highly evolved brain went completely offline.

"Fuck!"

It was all he could manage.

Greg was too busy stretching Mycroft's arse with his tongue to respond.

"Oh, God… Greg." Mycroft couldn't even think of anything intelligible. Greg's hot, wet tongue thrusting into him, pushing and twisting in his tight hole, was almost more than he could take. Sherlock had rimmed him before - yesterday, in fact, at Greg's behest, but it had been nothing like this. The combination of superior skill and sheer enthusiasm… _fuck._

When Greg eventually came up for air, he playfully bit one of Mycroft's arse cheeks and asked, "You liked that?"

Mycroft sputtered an enthusiastic, mind-blown, "God, yes."

"Good," he laughed, and did it all over again.

Mycroft pushed back, desperate for as much of Greg's tongue as he could get, and Greg seemed more than happy to oblige. His face was already pressed completely against him, and his hands pulled on Mycroft's hips for more leverage.

The slick tongue probing his hole felt incredible, and the overwhelming sensations made it hard for him to breathe. His mouth chanted a panting litany of 'yes, yes, yes.'

After what seemed like an eternity of bliss, Greg finally pulled away, and Mycroft involuntarily whined at the sudden emptiness.

"Don't worry, it's not for long," Greg said as he lubed up his fingers. The thorough rimming had already loosened him up, but he wanted Mycroft completely ready for the pounding he was going to get soon.

"Yes…" Mycroft gasped, as two of Greg's thick fingers slid into his arse with almost impossible ease.

Greg started with gentle, teasing strokes, but soon he was targeting Mycroft's prostate and discovered that Mycroft had a much coarser vocabulary than he usually used in public.

By the time Greg was twisting three fingers slowly into Mycroft's wet entrance, he was begging incoherently.

With his other hand, Greg fisted Mycroft's hair again and pulled back on it sharply. "Ask me…" he started, but stopped in mid-sentence, finishing with an awed, "oh, fuck." As soon as he'd pulled on his hair, Mycroft's arse had opened up even further and his fingers had slid in up to the next knuckle.

He did it again, to see if it had been a coincidence. If Mycroft's groans were an indicator, he loved the hair-pulling anyway, but this… he'd not expected this. It wasn't a fluke; his hole relaxed even further.

"God, Mycroft," he muttered, not sure of what else to say. He repositioned his body so he was pinning as much of Mycroft to the bed as he possibly could. _He might have issues with serious pain play, but he has a submissive streak a mile wide._ He added a little more lube and the slow tease of his three fingers turned into a more vigorous fucking that had Mycroft arching off the bed, desperate to get more of Greg's hand in his arse.

Greg pushed him back onto the bed forcefully and continued to pound him. It was hard to keep his voice level; he wanted to just take him, preferably ten minutes ago.

"You said you wanted me to fuck you, Mycroft. Hard."

Mycroft nodded, quickly.

"Do you still want that?"

"Oh, God yes. Please."

"Thank fuck," he said, slicking up his cock.

He slid off Mycroft's legs and knelt behind him, pulling him back towards him at the same time. He lined up against him carefully, but once he felt how loose he still was, he shoved inside him, hard and deep.

They both let out throaty moans at the deep penetration. Greg fisted Mycroft's hair again for leverage, and started pounding into him.

Mycroft gasped for breath as his head was pulled backwards. It felt so delicious to submit like this. Greg wasn't treating him with kid gloves, and his body was responding in ways he hadn't even expected. He knew his mind wanted to submit to Greg, but he hadn't fully known how much his body wanted it as well.

Greg was bent over him, his sweat-soaked skin sliding over Mycroft's back.

"You needed this," he hissed into Mycroft's ear - the words weren't a question. He let go of Mycroft's hair and gripped his shoulder almost painfully to get better leverage. "Fuck your hand for me."

Mycroft braced his weight on one arm as he wrapped his fingers around his aching prick. A particularly forceful thrust from Greg pushed his cock through his slick fist and he gasped.

Greg's continued his punishing thrusts, angling them to hit Mycroft's sweet spot.

"You like that. You like me controlling your pleasure, don't you?"

Mycroft nodded.

He felt Greg's hand close around his throat in a light squeeze; a sharp contrast to the fierce sensations in his arse, but its effect was just as powerful.

"Yes," he moaned, amazed that Greg had enough control not to completely choke him as he pounded him so thoroughly.

Greg kept up the light pressure as he continued his assault on Mycroft's arse.

His breathing wasn't impeded any more than it had been with his head pulled back, but the pressure on his carotid artery started to have an effect: his hearing started to get tinny and his vision started to dim. Mild euphoria set in as his body started to go slack. Greg immediately released his hold and the blood rushed back to his brain, returning him to the present. He fucked his fist more vigorously and begged for more.

"Do it again. Please." Intellectually, he knew it was dangerous, but he didn't care. It felt so good. "So close…"

Greg's hand closed around his neck again, this time less gently than before. Mycroft felt the beginnings of his orgasm almost immediately. He wasn't sure if it was a biological response or a psychological one, but he didn't care. His breath scraped through his throat as his body convulsed and hot sperm coated his hand.

Greg released him and braced both hands back on Mycroft's hips, chasing his own release. The sight of Mycroft Holmes completely undone beneath him, along with the contractions of Mycroft's orgasm, had him there almost immediately. He let out a growl as he pushed in hard, one final time, and shot his load deep inside him.

They both stayed there for a couple seconds and then collapsed, sated and exhausted, onto the bed in a heap. Greg rolled off of Mycroft and they both moved onto their backs, still breathing heavily.

"Fuck," Greg uttered.

Mycroft let out a small laugh. "Mm. _Fuck_."

They just lay there in silence for a while and enjoyed it. Neither of them bothered with even the pretence of cleaning up.

Greg slid his hand onto Mycroft's hip and sighed contentedly. "This weekend hasn't been at all what I expected."

"Mm," Mycroft responded, still bathed in the afterglow as much as Greg was, "that makes two of us."

Greg eventually slid off the bed with a groan and wandered into the bathroom to brush his teeth and get washed off.

"Join me in the shower?" he asked over his shoulder, and Mycroft smiled back at him.

"I'd love to."

They both stayed in the hot steamy water for longer than was strictly necessary.

Mycroft leaned against the slate wall of the large, glass shower as Greg rinsed the shampoo out of his hair. Greg had his eyes closed; he could openly stare for a few seconds. Before Greg had opened his eyes, Mycroft went back to his nonchalant glancing around.

"I saw that," Greg said teasingly as he opened his eyes.

"Saw what?" he said, trying to sound as innocent as possible. It wasn't working.

"You were staring. Not that I mind," he added, quickly.

Mycroft gave him a sheepish look and changed the subject. "So, what do you want to do today?" he asked, as he rinsed his own hair.

"Actually, well, I'd just like to sightsee, if that's alright."

"Of course," Mycroft replied, after the barest hesitation.

"With you, you idiot… and Sherlock. I'd, um… well, I'd like to get to know both of you better," he said, sounding awkward. "I sort of feel like we're doing this backwards."

Mycroft let out a bit of a nervous laugh. "Yes, I know what you mean: 'Will he still be interested when he finds out that I'm a posh git? Or why I have a relationship with my brother?'"

"Stop it," Greg said gently. "I'd like to spend the day with you both. More than one day, hopefully." He pulled Mycroft closer and gave him a soft kiss. "Please?"

Mycroft's nervous self-consciousness eased at Greg's words and tone of voice. "I'd like that. Thank you. I… well… this might take me a while to process. It's not you. It's just not something I've done in a very, very long time."

Greg kissed him again. "I know; I haven't either. It's probably going to be more than a bit odd at times."

Mycroft nodded.

"Come on, let's finish our shower and find Sherlock. I could murder a cup of tea. Do you know of somewhere we could get breakfast?"

Mycroft laughed, "Yes, here. I'm actually a decent cook."

"I don't want to make more work for you."

"I'm happy to do it; trust me. Later, we'll show you around the town or go out for a drive or something."

They finished up, and Mycroft put on his dressing gown and headed downstairs to find Sherlock and work on breakfast.


	15. A Grand Day Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A picnic at the beach gets interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings** : sibling incest
> 
>  **Beta** : deklava and moonblossom

It was surprisingly difficult to make small-talk with someone after the instant intimacy of sex. It was harder still when your older brother had taken a sudden interest in that person, and you couldn't just pass off the whole thing as an entertaining diversion. Or, in his case, work.

To be fair, small-talk wasn't something with which Sherlock generally concerned himself. And while he liked Greg, he wasn't particularly smitten with him. But Mycroft was, and that made it very much his concern; not because he was jealous (although he was, a bit), but because Mycroft was, in some ways, his responsibility.

And so, the three of them sat at the end of the antique wooden breakfast table, discussed their plans for the day, and pointedly avoided any mention of the previous evening.

Sherlock mostly kept quiet and observed. The fact that neither Greg nor Mycroft noticed this was testament to their attraction and how much it rendered them oblivious to the world around them. He didn't expect Greg to notice, but Mycroft was another matter.

His brother had come by his room after his morning with Greg, showered and alert, but clearly post-coital. The room was soundproof, but it didn't take _any_ skills in deductive reasoning to figure it out. And there was the shockingly dark purple mark on his neck, after all.

He smiled at Mycroft, even as his heart broke a little. Professional detachment was one thing. Personal detachment was another, and something he'd never been able to master. But he'd given his consent when he left earlier that morning, and he certainly didn't hold it against Mycroft.

"Gregory has asked if he can stay the week."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and said nothing.

"What do you think?"

"I think your interest in him sounds mutual," Sherlock responded with a smirk. "You certainly don't need my permission."

"I'm not asking for it, Sherlock, but you do get a say in this."

"I'm alright with it. It's nice to see you enjoying yourself in a more submissive role."

Colour rose in Mycroft's cheeks, but it was true and they both knew it. Sherlock was simply more direct in his observations.

"What do you think of him as a person?"

"I'm not as besotted as you are, but I like him a great deal. Further interactions will bear out whether or not he deserves you." He smiled wryly and added, "And I mean that in the best of ways, My."

"Well, he'd like to 'interact further' with both of us today, in a non-sexual manner." Mycroft bit at his lower lip before continuing. "I feel strongly about this, Sherlock, but like I said this morning, this doesn't replace what we have. Nothing will. If I ever have to choose between you and someone else, there is no question in my mind; it _will_ be you." His worried features softened a bit when Sherlock smiled at him, and he continued, "That said, I spoke with Gregory this morning about your sexual and emotional presence in my life being a non-negotiable aspect of any relationship. Not," he added quickly, "that I'm saying this is turning into a relationship. He's just fully aware of what he's getting into."

Sherlock nodded; he was both surprised and impressed. Despite Greg's assurances the previous evening, he'd still expected him to run screaming when the realisation actually hit him that he and Mycroft were both sexually _and_ emotionally involved.

"And this 'further interaction' you mentioned; what exactly do you have planned for the day, My?"

"Well, I thought we could show him around the town and then go for a picnic at Ansteys Cove. A private picnic. A picnic with options, should the need arise."

Sherlock smiled, "I'll bring the extra bag then." He ran his hand over one of his luscious arse cheeks and added, "And I assume I should leave the plug in place?"

"Mm," Mycroft agreed, and kissed him. "Even if this 'further interaction' is completely non-sexual, you know I won't deny your needs for an entire day. Well, at least not without just cause," he grinned. He'd slapped Sherlock playfully on the arse and they'd both gotten dressed and ready for breakfast.

Mycroft had cooked up a fairly impressive spread, which bore no resemblance to the 'Full English Breakfast' fry-ups of old, and now they were discussing Greg's job.

"I work with New Scotland Yard in London. Detective Inspector."

Sherlock sat up straighter in his chair. "Do you oversee a lot of murder investigations?"

"Yeah, more than I'd like. Sometimes I think about retiring to the countryside, where there's not quite as much mindless violence. Takes it out of you, it does. I suppose that's why people end up on holiday in Devon."

"Have you ever been down here before?" Mycroft asked, politely.

"Not to Torquay. I went to the Regatta at Dartmouth once. Had a friend who went to the Naval College."

"Mm, yes. Lovely little town."

Sherlock was a little disappointed that the topic hadn't lingered on murder investigations. He excused himself from the table and went to make the sandwiches for the picnic.

The weather was good, and they walked down to the centre of town. The sightseers wandered aimlessly as they browsed the shops and enjoyed the view at the harbour. The locals were equally easy to spot, intent on their errands as they carried bags of shopping.

Mycroft pointed out the local police station and casually noted, "Sherlock helps with some of their cases."

Greg stopped, mid-stride, and turned to Sherlock. "You what?"

"Well, as Mycroft said," he started, a little sarcastically, "I help with some of their cases. Cold cases, mostly. The ones they can't figure out."

Mycroft shot him a warning glance. _Be nice._

"That's… unusual, isn't it? I mean, I've certainly never heard of anything like that."

Sherlock shrugged. "We came to a mutually agreeable arrangement. I don't make them look like idiots in the press, and they keep me intellectually occupied in my spare time. Just because I'm a fuck-toy doesn't mean I'm a cretin."

A passing tourist almost tripped as she heard the phrase 'fuck-toy,' and Sherlock smirked.

"Sherlock," Mycroft hissed, "you know better." He turned to Greg and continued, "We're not locals, of course - we weren't born here - so we try and keep a low profile. We'd prefer that the rather unique nature of our enterprise not become public knowledge. Of course," he mused, "it wouldn't be any better if we _were_ locals. I don't see that sort of thing going over at all well here. Still, we've had good luck so far."

Sherlock snorted, trying to contain his laughter.

"Well," Mycroft continued, "we did have a few problems when we first got here. Sherlock attempted to convince the police that a recent drowning had been a murder, and they weren't particularly interested in his opinion. He harassed the murderer so much that he turned himself in, begging to be protected from Sherlock's incessant hounding. They started giving him cases after that."

"Wish we had one of you in London. I've got stacks of cold cases we'll probably never close."

"I'd come up and help," Sherlock eyed Greg's body and gave him a slight leer before continuing, "but it's not my primary calling. I believe you were introduced to _that_ , yesterday."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock, behave. Don't forget: 'without just cause'," he added, with a hint of warning in his tone.

Sherlock's challenging attitude evaporated and he glanced at the ground. "Sorry, Greg."

Greg looked confused and glanced between Sherlock and Mycroft.

"Sometimes my little brother has to be reminded that not every occasion is sexually charged, and that his behaviour can be inappropriate."

"Ah, right," Greg said, cheerfully. "Well, no offence taken; the occasional leer can be quite nice sometimes."

They walked back up the hill towards the house. By the time they got back, they'd worked up a light sweat; the day was almost relentlessly sunny.

"Would you like something cool to drink before we set out, Gregory?"

"Mm. Just water, thanks."

"You'll want sturdy shoes for the cove; boots if you have them."

"What sort of beach is this?"

Mycroft laughed. "A Devon beach. No sand here; nothing you can build sandcastles with, at least. Plenty of caves and outcroppings though; it used to be a prime location for smugglers and pirates."

Sherlock filled two decent-sized rucksacks with sandwiches, cheese, apples, drinks, towels, and a small bottle of lubricant. Just in case.

"Sherlock, would you please fetch the car?"

He nodded and started walking towards the small private car park on the adjacent road. There was only one spot available in front of the building, and that was always used for the client's car.

When he returned with the sleek Mercedes sedan, Greg and Mycroft were waiting outside, engaged in a discussion. He didn't think it was the topic that was causing their distracted smiles and their sudden inability to meet each other's gaze. Mycroft was acting like a blushing schoolgirl.

"I'll drive, Sherlock. Gregory can ride up front. It will give him a better view of the scenery."

 _And it will give you a better view of Gregory_ , he thought. He stepped out of the car and sat in the back with the rucksacks.

They drove out to Ansteys Cove Road, parked at the small car park, and headed down the steep trail towards the beach.

* * *

The beach, although lovely in its own right (and actually more scenic than the one from his childhood in Weston-super-Mare), contained nothing Greg associated with the word 'beach.' It didn't have sand; it had pebbles. The wooden boardwalk he'd expected was substituted with a concrete bulwark and a couple of small tables. There was no pier, and only a smattering of people. A few holiday-makers leaned up against the railings and ate ice cream. They watched their children run along the beach, picking up interestingly-coloured rocks and skipping the local slate stones across the odd patch of calm water. Even now, at the height of summer, it was almost deserted.

As the name suggested, the 'beach' was more of a cove. Tall cliffs, with trees clinging precariously to their edges, marked each side of the little sanctuary. Vicious-looking rocky outcroppings poked up from the water at odd angles. At high tide, they'd be deadly to boats; at low tide, they were probably deadly to ankles. Greg could see why Mycroft had told him to wear his boots.

The three of them made their way to the right, off the concrete area and down onto the beach.

"So," Greg asked somewhat tentatively, "is this the prime picnicking spot in Torquay?"

"I'll admit it doesn't look like the most idyllic spot to set down a blanket," Mycroft answered, "but it does have a certain privacy that the headland parks lack."

"Ah. Now I'm beginning to see the appeal," he said as he picked his way across slippery, seaweed-covered rocks.

"The tide is on its way out. We should be able to make our way to the next cove over. It has another small beach and some interesting caves."

Sherlock snorted and tried to cover it with a cough.

Mycroft glared at him before turning to Greg. "Despite Sherlock's reaction, this isn't on our, um… _regular_ tour of Torquay. He and I have visited the caves a couple of times, but never with visitors. And I assure you: it is a nice, quiet place for a picnic - no screaming children, for one."

They were edging their way between the outcroppings and the cliffs now. The water had receded enough for them to pass, but the rocks were still slippery and wet beneath their feet.

Greg slipped on some seaweed and stumbled, but he caught his footing at the last minute and grabbed onto one of the outcroppings. Mycroft was immediately by his side.

"I'm so sorry, Gregory. If you want to go back, please just say."

"Nah. Makes a nice change from London. The last time I almost broke an ankle, it was chasing some bastard down an alley. This is far more scenic."

They continued along the rocky coast and eventually emerged in a much smaller cove. This one was bordered by steep cliffs on all three sides, and there was no trail back to the car. After their journey through the treacherous rocks, the small stones of the 'beach' seemed positively welcoming, and Mycroft and Sherlock set down their rucksacks.

Greg smirked; Mycroft looked completely out of his element. His one concession to the beach environment seemed to be shorts. Linen shorts. Combined with his boots, they made him look like a turn-of-the-century archaeologist on an expedition to Egypt. As anachronistic as Mycroft looked though, Greg still found himself admiring him.

They set out the tartan wool blanket on the driest, flattest spot of beach they could find. Sherlock started pulling a seemingly endless array of food from the packs: sandwiches, grapes, crusty bread, cheese, honey, a Battenberg cake, and a bottle of white wine. Three acrylic wineglasses followed (Mycroft apologised for these, but assured him they were far safer than the glass ones). Plates and utensils joined the feast on the blanket. It was the most civilised picnic Greg had ever seen.

Even though he'd eaten breakfast only a few hours before, his walk through the town and the veritable rock-scramble to the cove had left Greg with quite an appetite.

"Sherlock, love. Would you open the wine?"

It was the first time Greg had heard Mycroft use any sort of endearment with Sherlock in public; not that an uninhabited cove could really be considered 'public.' He tilted his head and chewed on the inside of his mouth, thoughtfully.

"What's it like down here? I mean, I'm assuming there's not much of a gay scene. How do you hide your relationship? Isn't it difficult?"

Much to Greg's surprise, Mycroft laughed.

"It's easier than you'd think. Everyone here assumes people are straight and not incestuous, so we appear to be close brothers running a successful family business. As long as I don't go into the butcher's with my hand on Sherlock's arse, no one even thinks to question it. An unmarried straight couple would generate far more gossip."

"Oh… yeah. Of course. I never thought about it that way. Do you ever have non-kinky types try and stay at the B&B?"

"We don't advertise, but on the off chance that we get any unscreened enquires, we're mysteriously full. It makes us appear to be one of the most successful lodgings in town; no one can ever get a booking." He looked over at Sherlock fondly and continued, "It's a fairly quiet existence really, but it suits us."

Sherlock nodded.

"Do you ever get up to London? There are some private S&M clubs there. That's how I heard about this place, actually - a Dom friend of mine told me about it. I think you'd both enjoy them - somewhere you can be yourself and still be around other people."

"Mm. It's not a bad idea, actually. We have a place up there, but we rarely use it. I'm sure Sherlock would appreciate a slightly longer leash occasionally," he said, with a hint of a smile in his brother's direction.

"You should both come up and visit sometime, and I'll show you around. I'm sure we can even have a picnic somewhere, but I don't know of anywhere with private caves," he added, nodding towards the dark gash in the rocks behind them. "And up there, no one would know you're brothers." Then he realised what he'd said. "Oh, sorry. I didn't mean… fuck." He shook his head, inwardly cursing his lack of tact.

"It's quite alright, Gregory. Our situation is rather unusual. Gay visitors bring a lot of money to the area and the locals are finally starting to accept that, but our relationship would never be condoned. Not even in London."

Greg nodded. It was true.

"Still, we've made quite a good life of it down here. We have each other, and Sherlock gets his needs fulfilled. We both do, for the most part. I'm just finding that perhaps there are a few needs I didn't know I had."

Greg glanced over at Sherlock, who appeared to be trying desperately not to smile. For someone who admitted to being jealous of Mycroft's interest in him, he also seemed incredibly amused by his brother's sudden lack of control.

"Sherlock, it would be nice if we had a table."

Sherlock started unbuttoning his shirt.

"Gregory, which would you prefer, face up or face down?"

"Face down seems more practical, face up seems like more fun. I'm going with face up," he replied with a grin. _So much for a non-sexual day out._

As if he'd read Greg's mind, Mycroft replied, "It doesn't have to lead to anything, of course, but Sherlock does love to be helpful when he's not being an utter brat." A playful smile crossed his face as Sherlock removed his shirt, but left his shorts and his boots on.

"Oh… I can't say as I'd mind. Not in the least," Greg stammered. Now his sexual hunger was back, as well as a growling in his stomach.

"Well, in that case: Sherlock, please remove your shorts as well. You may leave your pants on for now, in case any kayaking tourists should happen by. I'm sure we can explain your, um, 'table-ness' as sunbathing."

Sherlock lay down on the wool blanket, lacing his hands behind his head as a pillow.

Greg laughed. "I'm not sure anyone is going to believe that he sunbathes, not with that gorgeous, marble skin of his."

"All the more reason for him to get some sun now," Mycroft replied.

In what Greg considered to be a stunning show of restraint, Mycroft placed as much of their picnic as possible on Sherlock's chest and stomach, without so much as a glance at Sherlock's half-hard cock beneath his tight cotton underpants. They certainly weren't leaving much to Greg's imagination, and he found it hard to think about lunch.

When Mycroft asked him what sort of sandwich he'd like, his mind went down entirely the wrong alley and visions of who'd get to be in the middle suddenly filled his head. When he realised what Mycroft was talking about (and that he was waiting patiently for an answer), he managed to stammer a reply. "Um… cheese. Sorry."

"I'm not sure he was thinking about food, Mycroft," Sherlock added, cheekily.

Greg blushed.

"Don't be rude, Sherlock. You don't always have to state the obvious."

Greg ran his hand over his face, slightly mortified.

Mycroft pulled him over and kissed him. "I'm sorry, I couldn't resist. I know we're both flattered that you're thinking about something other than this lovely… spread," Mycroft said, motioning either to the array of food or Sherlock's lovely body. Greg wasn't sure which. Judging by the lascivious smile on Mycroft's face, he probably meant both.

Mycroft passed Greg a cheese sandwich and a glass of wine. He raised his glass in a toast towards Greg. "To pleasant surprises."

"To pleasant surprises," Greg and Sherlock replied. Greg and Mycroft both took a sip, but Sherlock didn't have a glass and was in no position to drink.

Mycroft took another sip of the wine. He bent down towards his brother, and Sherlock opened his mouth expectantly. Mycroft let the wine flow from his mouth into Sherlock's, and then kissed him. It was one of the most beautiful, intimate things Greg had ever seen, and his breath caught in his throat.

 _Christ. Don't let anything you do fuck that up_ , he thought.

Mycroft and Sherlock were too caught up in their own world to even notice that he'd been watching, and probably wouldn't have cared anyway.

Mycroft eventually broke off the kiss and sat back up. "Sorry…" he started.

"No. Don't ever apologise for what you have," he said gently. "Besides, most people go their entire lives without witnessing something as…" he struggled for words, "as touching as that."

Greg tried to mentally reconcile Sherlock's bratty tendencies with his tender affection for Mycroft. He was certain the latter wasn't an act, but he didn't think the former was, either. Mycroft had confirmed that Sherlock's sexual needs were higher than 'normal'; perhaps his bratty behaviour was just a way to ensure those needs were met - or to give guests a reason to discipline him. The brothers' relationship certainly went far deeper than he'd originally conceived.

Mycroft offered Greg some grapes and fed a few to Sherlock as he passed Greg a cheese sandwich on a crusty roll. A thick layer of butter separated the cheese from the bread. Inspired, Greg ran his finger along the edge of the sandwich and captured some of the butter on the tip of his finger. He offered it to Sherlock, who craned his neck to reach it and took Greg's finger into his mouth. He sucked the butter from it and then continued to tease it with his tongue.

Mycroft chuckled. "Brilliant idea, Gregory; I think we'll be feeding him his lunch." He broke off a piece of cheese from his own sandwich and fed it to Sherlock, who moaned when the sharp tang of the local cheddar hit his tongue.

Greg took a bite of his own sandwich and groaned. "God, that's good," he said, his voice half muffled as he chewed. He ran his finger along the edge once again, and this time he smeared the butter on Sherlock's pink nipple.

Sherlock looked up in surprise but couldn't move without disturbing the rest of their lunch on his chest.

Greg moved the Battenberg cake out of the way and bent his head to lick the butter off of Sherlock's nipple. "Mm. Delicious," he said, giving it a small bite.

Mycroft smiled approvingly and took a bite of his sandwich. Then he tore a piece of the bread off and fed it to Sherlock, who eagerly devoured it. He handed Greg a plastic squeeze bottle filled with honey. "Would you like some honey for your bread? Or perhaps you can think of a better use for it," he added with a grin.

"You're damned right I can," Greg replied, downing the last gulp of his wine before he started squeezing lines of honey around the delicately placed objects on Sherlock's chest. "I think we need to start testing his resolve, don't you?"

"Cake first?"

"Bloody hell, Mycroft," Sherlock piped up. "What is it with you and cake?"

Mycroft shoved a bit of sandwich in his mouth. "None of that, you little brat," he said affectionately.

"Actually, I quite fancy a bit of cake," Greg replied. "I'm sure he can wait a few minutes. It'll be good for him."

Using a blunt knife, Mycroft cut a piece from the marzipan-covered, rectangular block of cake. As the knife edge touched Sherlock's stomach, he traced delicate lines with it across his brother's skin. The blade caused no damage - not even marks - but Sherlock broke out in gooseflesh at the sensation and moaned.

"Christ, I've never seen anyone respond like that. He gets off just as much with a light tease as he does with a heavy beating." A sudden realisation hit him as he savoured the cake. "Fuck me. All that equipment in the bedroom; that's not just for the clients, is it? You use it to keep him entertained when it's just the two of you."

Mycroft smiled. "It would be a shame to let it go to waste, don't you think?"

"I can't argue with that. Now I see why you enjoy having the hotel empty at times."

As they finished their cake and fed small pieces to Sherlock, Mycroft asked, "Did you get enough to eat? Food, at least?"

"Mm, plenty, thanks. I'd like to see how well he does with the rest of my appetite, if you don't mind," he said as he cupped his hand over Sherlock's burgeoning erection and rubbed it slowly. "He certainly seems interested. What do you think, Sherlock? Perhaps you didn't get quite enough to eat earlier?" His own cock started throbbing in his shorts at the idea of shoving his cock down Sherlock's exquisite throat. "Perhaps I'll have to force-feed you later."

Mycroft hummed his approval at that, and Sherlock openly moaned.

"Yeah, I thought so."

"He really can be a complete tart, Gregory, but in the most delicious of ways."

Greg's mouth was already occupied, licking the sun-warmed honey from Sherlock's bare chest.

When he raised his head to lick his lips and savour the honey, he asked, "How do you keep him so deliciously smooth, Mycroft? His balls too, I noticed."

"I've become quite proficient with hot wax. We can't have it done locally, for obvious reasons. Besides, he finds the pain and the endorphin rush sexually stimulating. I make him shave his genitals daily, of course."

Greg wasn't sure if that was a statement that merited an 'of course' but he wasn't about to mention it.

Mycroft continued, "That is, unless he's been particularly good. Then I tie him down and do it for him. Same with the enemas."

"Oh," Greg replied, attempting to sound nonchalant as he nearly choked on the honey, "I'd been meaning to ask you about that." He glanced down at Sherlock who was holding his breath and trembling, trying desperately not to explode with laughter. The sight put Greg over the edge, and he started to laugh, unable to deny the bizarre quality of the conversation anymore.

That triggered Sherlock, who disintegrated into rounds of giggles. Mycroft gave them both slightly withering looks and said, "What? It's true."

Greg tried to restrain his laughter and replied, "No, I really _had_ been meaning to ask you that, it's just that, well, this whole conversation is so surreal. It's not a bad thing, it's actually wonderful. I'm sorry…" he said, struggling to suck in a deep breath and regain some sort of control. He managed, sort of. "I really am sorry, Mycroft. I wasn't trying to be rude." The very last thing he wanted to do was offend him. "I just never thought I'd have this particular conversation with a stunning man on a secluded beach while I licked honey off his brother's chest. You have to admit, those seem like long odds."

Mycroft cracked a smile. "Yes, I suppose it is a little unusual."

"This should be obvious," Sherlock remarked dryly, "but he's not laughing at _you_ , Mycroft. Besides," he added sarcastically, "I'd like him to get on with what he was doing, if it's quite alright with you."

"Cheeky sod," Greg muttered as he tweaked one of Sherlock's nipples. Mycroft needed to reassert his control over the situation and 'disciplining' his brother would provide it. Sherlock, ironically, was being gracious enough to provide him with the perfect opportunity. It was fairly transparent on Sherlock's part, and all the more touching because of it.

Mycroft tore one of the crusty rolls in half. "That's quite enough out of you, Sherlock," he said as he stuffed the bread into his brother's mouth.

Sherlock's eyes widened with surprise, but there was no further protest.

Greg smiled at Mycroft and started to lick the honey off of Sherlock again. Sherlock squirmed as Greg's tongue swept slow, wet stripes across his lightly muscled stomach.

Mycroft grabbed Sherlock's wrists and worked them out from underneath his head. "I think you need to be restrained, brother-mine." He grasped them tightly and pinned them firmly above his head, so Sherlock's body was stretched taut. He got a bread-muffled groan in reply.

"Oh yeah, that's better," Greg said. He switched to light, teasing strokes that danced over Sherlock's tight marble skin. Most of the honey was gone now, and Mycroft had removed what was left of the food.

Greg sat back on his heels and surveyed the delicious sight before him: Sherlock stretched over the blanket like a feast of an entirely different sort, and his delicious brother holding him there. _When did I get so lucky?_ A quick glance at Sherlock's pants left nothing to the imagination, and he turned to Mycroft. "I think he looks hungry, don't you? Perhaps we didn't give him enough to eat."

"Hm, it's true. He doesn't seem to be making much progress with that bread roll. Did you have something else in mind?" he asked with a sly smile.

Greg glanced around at the small cove and the band of rocks they'd crossed earlier. "Tide's still going out?"

Mycroft nodded. "We should have a while yet."

"Good." He gestured towards several large gashes in the cliff behind them. "So you said these are caves, right?"

"Some of them; others are just outcroppings."

"Any chance you brought rope?"

Mycroft beamed at him. "It's never a picnic without rope, Gregory." He released his brother's wrists and dug around in the rucksack until he found a length of sturdy nylon rope and handed it to Greg.

"Perfect." He gazed down at Sherlock with a slight leer. "As much as I love a little exhibitionism, I think we should let Sherlock have his lunch with a little more privacy, don't you? We wouldn't want anyone disturbing it; he might lose his appetite." He pulled the soaking wet bread roll from Sherlock's mouth and chucked it towards the water. Seagulls appeared, as if out of nowhere, and made off with bits of the soggy bread. "Everyone gets lunch today," Greg said with a grin, as he pulled Sherlock to his feet.

"Thank you for letting me keep my boots on, My," Sherlock said as they made their way over to the largest cave.

"Well, the last time we were here, you slipped and almost cracked your head open. It seemed like a wise move."

Greg was silently glad for their remote location and the apparent privacy it afforded. Three men - two dressed and one almost naked except for his boots - heading for a cave… it would probably be a bit hard to explain to the locals, and he didn't think his badge from the Yard would get him out of this one.

The largest cave wasn't more than fifteen feet deep and about ten feet wide. The rocks on the floor were worn smooth from years of erosion, and they were still damp from the recent high tide. Greg glanced around and found a spot that was relatively hidden from view, in case any kayaking tourists should happen to paddle by.

Sherlock ran his tongue slowly across his lips. "I'm hungry," he said, in a voice like dark chocolate.

"You're always hungry, you little tease," Greg retorted. "Now, get on your knees; we'll make sure you get what you deserve."

Sherlock knelt on the rock and let out a small yelp as the cold, wet stone touched his skin. He placed his arms behind his back and waited for Greg to bind them.

Greg took his crossed wrists and bound them together tightly with the rope. More lashings between his wrists would tighten the bonds, and the rope would bite into the tender skin of Sherlock's wrists. Greg looked at Mycroft for his permission; they would leave marks, and Sherlock was wearing a short-sleeved shirt. Mycroft nodded and unconsciously licked his own lips.

"Too tight, Sherlock?" Greg asked before they continued. His circulation looked good, and the rope wouldn't mark him much.

"No."

Greg had expected a witty retort, but perhaps Sherlock was more worried that they would cut the picnic short and make him go home without his lunch. He rubbed Sherlock's arse cheek through the thin cotton knit. The outline of the butt plug was just visible and Greg pushed on it, eliciting a small whine.

Greg walked around in front of him and ran his hand along Sherlock's erect length, still covered by his pants.

"Getting a little snug, are they?" he asked, playfully.

Sherlock nodded.

"It's a shame to let a perfectly good erection go to waste. If you're good enough, perhaps we'll let you get yourself off after this."

Sherlock started tugging at the waistband of Greg’s shorts with his teeth. 

"Oh, so now you're more enthusiastic with a little incentive, eh? I hope that doesn't mean you would have held back without it. What do you think Mycroft? Would he have held back?" He gave Mycroft a wink that Sherlock couldn't see.

"I'm afraid it's possible, Gregory," Mycroft agreed.

Greg took hold of Sherlock's hair and pulled his head back with a sharp tug. "This had better be the best fucking blowjob I've ever had, or I'll bend you over that rock and fuck your arse until you're raw. And then I'll let Mycroft have a go. Do you have a problem with that?"

"No," Sherlock answered.

Greg rubbed his hand across Sherlock's cock again. He'd only gotten harder. He had no intention of carrying through with his threat, and Sherlock either knew that or was getting off on the idea.

Greg pulled down his shorts and pants and they bunched up around his boots. He was achingly hard, and it felt good to be free of them. "Sorry Mycroft, I should have asked. Are you going to fuck his mouth after I'm done, or do you plan on having his arse at the same time?"

"Oh," Mycroft mused, "now that's a delicious option I hadn't considered."

"Lovely. Well, I'll let you start. Once he's impaled on your cock, I'll see what I can do to keep him quiet with mine."

Mycroft removed a small bottle of lube from his shorts before he undid them and let them fall to his ankles.

If someone _did_ show up, one naked man with his hands tied behind his back would be easier to explain than one naked man and two others scrambling for their clothes that had been placed on a distant rock. Not that either was an explanation any of them wanted to try and fabricate.

Mycroft shoved Sherlock's legs apart and knelt between them, then he pulled down Sherlock's pants.

"Oh, Sherlock," he said as he felt the large wet spot on the front of them, "can you even go a single day without ruining a pair? At least these wash; the silk ones were a nightmare."

"It's usually your fault," Sherlock muttered under his breath.

Mycroft gave his cock a few teasing pulls in retaliation and Sherlock arched his back and groaned.

"Okay, lean over. I need to take this out. Gregory, could you steady him for me?" Greg braced his shoulders as Mycroft removed the plug and returned Sherlock to his kneeling position.

"What do you think Gregory, does he deserve extra lube?"

"Yeah, I think so," Greg said with a grin. "He did make a lovely table."

Sherlock glanced up at Greg through his long dark lashes, smiled, and mouthed, "Thanks."

Mycroft slicked himself up and slowly pushed two fingers into Sherlock's arse.

"Oh, beautiful," he said. "No resistance at all. I really should keep you plugged like this all the time." He lined his cock up against Sherlock's entrance, wiped his slick fingers off on Sherlock's thigh, and then pushed.

"God, you're still so tight," he muttered as he pushed all the way inside his brother. Sherlock let out a moan at least two octaves lower than his normal range.

Greg smiled. "I can wait a few more minutes if you want to give him a good pounding and open him up a bit. I wouldn't want him getting distracted with my cock in his mouth."

"Are you sure?"

"Oh yeah. I'd like to watch, for one."

Mycroft just smiled and pulled back, completely out of Sherlock's arse.

"No!" Sherlock wailed.

"Don't worry, you'll be stuffed full again soon enough. I thought Gregory might enjoy seeing how easily your arse swallows up my cock. You're always so hungry for it, you little slut."

Hearing Mycroft use that sort of language made Greg even harder. Besides, Mycroft was right, he _did_ want to see that. Very much so.

"Here, Gregory, hold him open for me. I want you to get a good view."

Greg leaned forward and spread Sherlock's arse cheeks wide as Mycroft positioned himself once more. His fluttering hole was still partially open, and Sherlock was pushing back, eager to be filled. Greg watched, rapt, as the thick head of Mycroft's cock, gleaming slick with lube, slowly pushed inside.

"See how easily he takes it? And yet he's still so tight." Mycroft pushed into him, fractions of an inch at a time, teasing him.

"God Mycroft, please," Sherlock begged as he strained to push himself onto his brother's cock, but Mycroft held him firmly and continued at his glacial pace.

He turned to Greg with a wicked smile and said, "He's never been good with delayed gratification."

Greg's mouth watered as he watched Mycroft slowly bury his thick cock deep inside Sherlock's arse.

When Mycroft was finally inside him, balls-deep, he pulled out suddenly and slammed it back home.

"Yes…" Sherlock roared, his voice echoing around the cave.

Mycroft clamped his hand over Sherlock's mouth while he continued pounding him. "Restraint… little brother," he hissed between thrusts.

Greg had never seen anything so fiercely erotic, and he couldn't hold back any longer. He sighed as he grasped his own leaking cock.

Mycroft heard Greg and glanced over. After one more punishing thrust deep inside Sherlock, he grabbed his brother's hair and pulled him backwards.

"I think Gregory is more than ready to feed you your lunch. You're going to take every inch of him in your mouth while I fuck your arse, and he'd better not feel even a hint of teeth. I'll be fucking you nice and slow, so you have no excuse. After you get both of us off, we'll decide if we're going to let you come or not. Got it?" He punctuated the question with another yank on Sherlock's hair.

"Yes."

"Good. Gregory?"

Greg moved back so that he stood in front of Sherlock with his cock at mouth height. With Mycroft kneeling behind his brother, it was almost like one of the sandwiches he'd been thinking about earlier in the afternoon.

Sherlock was still bound, so Greg helpfully pulled his straining cock away from his stomach and placed the tip of it at Sherlock's lips. He was curious to see if Sherlock would eagerly wrap his mouth around him, or if he'd need to be more forceful about things and shove his cock-head past those gorgeous lips. Either option was fine with him.

He didn't have any more time to think about it, because Sherlock's mouth was already on him, hot and tight and wet, and feeling like heaven. He groaned with relief - it suddenly felt like he'd been waiting for this all day. Sherlock's tongue danced around the head of his cock and every time Mycroft thrust into his arse, Sherlock would take him deeper into his mouth.

He saw Mycroft wrap his arm around Sherlock's chest to brace him. Mycroft wouldn't be able to give his brother the long, slow slides of earlier, but he was able to thrust up into him as Greg fucked his throat.

"How does it feel, Sherlock?", Mycroft whispered. "Do you like being filled up like this? Like a cheap whore, renting yourself out on a public beach?"

Sherlock managed to groan, even with Greg's cock filling his mouth.

Greg grabbed the back of Sherlock's head and started to fuck his face more vigorously. If Sherlock kept this up, he wasn't going to last long. He glanced down, and that was his mistake. Sherlock, of course, looked gorgeous, even sucking cock. But then he saw Mycroft, pressed firmly up against his brother, whispering filthy things in his ear as he thrust up into him.

That.

That was what did him in.

His orgasm tore through him, almost without warning, and he groaned Mycroft's name as he came in thick spurts down Sherlock's throat.

He stood there for a few seconds, riding out the orgasm, and then slowly pulled out. He wiped away the drool and semen from the corner of Sherlock's mouth and then let Sherlock lick his fingers clean.

"Here," Greg said. "Let me help." He pulled Sherlock forward so he was braced up against his body. Between that, and using Sherlock's bound arms as leverage, Mycroft was able to return to the long pounding strokes he'd been giving Sherlock earlier.

Sherlock gasped at each thrust, obviously trying not to make noise. It wasn't long before Mycroft threw his head back, eyes shut and mouth open in a soundless cry of pleasure.

He sat back on his heels and caught his breath as Greg swiftly untied Sherlock.

"Your wrists alright?"

"Mm, fine. Just a little rope burn; I've had worse."

Mycroft looked at them both and gave them a lazy smile. Sherlock was the only one who hadn't come, and the only one who was particularly alert.

"Come on. We should get dressed and get out of here before someone does show up. That is," he added, "unless you two plan letting me get myself off…"

"Oh, I dunno. I'd quite like to see that. What about you, Mycroft?"

Mycroft just smiled.

"Well then, I guess it's your turn. It seems like you'd be good at putting on a show for us."

"It's not going to last long, at this rate," Sherlock breathed, his spit-slicked hand already around his cock and moving fast. It didn't take long, but the look on his face as he came was exquisite, and his hot sperm coated his hand and his stomach.

"Very nice," Greg murmured. "Now, clean yourself up. You need the protein."

Sherlock licked the thick fluid from his fingers, making far more of a production of it than was strictly necessary, but neither Greg nor Mycroft complained.

"Alright," Mycroft said, his voice still heavy from the sex, "now we really _should_ get going. Sherlock - do you want the plug in or out? It's your choice."

"In," Sherlock said with a wicked grin. "I like the way it feels when I walk."

His brother shook his head and smiled. "Bend over, then." Sherlock bent at the waist and Mycroft gently pushed the plug back inside him.

"There's a small tidal pool back here. We should probably clean up a bit before we head back onto the beach. And Sherlock, I apologise; I clearly erred by not bringing your clothing with us. I just hope nobody sees you in your pants. Perhaps we should wet them down completely and say you went for a swim."

"I'll take my chances. I don't relish the idea of wearing wet pants all the way home."

"You don't have to wear them home at all."

"Oh, right," he said, as his face lit up with a smile. He dunked them in the pool and put them on. "Bloody hell, that's cold water, but now at least I have a viable excuse. You two dressed yet?"

They were, and the three of them headed back to their picnic spot. The beach was still empty, but they could hear excited voices heading around the rocks from the main beach. Sherlock ran over to his clothes, stripped off his wet pants, and hastily redressed. He shoved the wet underpants in one of the rucksacks.

"Sherlock," Mycroft scolded, but his smile betrayed his tone of voice.

They were dressed and the rucksacks were packed up with the remains of the picnic by the time the children reached the cove. Mycroft looked like an archaeologist again, and Greg couldn't even tell that Sherlock wasn't wearing any pants.

"Did you grab the lube from the cave?" Sherlock hissed, while trying to smile innocuously at the children.

"As if I would forget," Mycroft said with a grin, and they headed back towards the main beach.


	16. An Introduction to Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Sherlock tell Greg about their past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to non_canonical for britpicking for me.
> 
> **Note:** This is where the backstory begins. It explores Sherlock and Mycroft's relationship since childhood. The story doesn't contain outright porn again until Chapter 22, but if you skip directly there it will be rather confusing.
> 
> **Warnings:** Domestic Violence.

_Five years earlier..._

Mycroft collapsed onto the sofa as the door to the flat slammed shut. He should have seen this coming. Sherlock had. When he stopped shaking enough to be able to stand, he went to the kitchen to get a bag of frozen peas for his forehead and then to the bedroom to pack a suitcase.

* * *

In general terms, his relationship with pain had been a very good one.

When he'd received his first caning in boarding school at the age of twelve, Mycroft discovered that the experience left him startlingly aroused. His initial horror gave way to curiosity and scientific enquiry. The school administrators couldn't understand why such an outstanding student had developed such a discipline problem.

The next time he was home for school holidays, it hadn't taken much convincing to get one of the stable boys to use a riding crop on him. The whole experience had been entirely satisfactory. Better than satisfactory, in fact. He came to a discreet arrangement that left one of them with well-lined pockets and the other with a glowing arse.

Satisfaction at school was less easily arranged. He was getting too old for 'disciplinary problems.' Besides, that ruse was wearing thin. He instinctively knew this wasn't something he should get caught doing, and he didn't trust anyone not to use the information against him. So, along with the rest of the pupils, he contented himself with the occasional wank and left it at that. It made his holiday visits all the more sweet.

A year later when his hormones really kicked in, his whole approach to discovering his sexuality went much the same way - pragmatically and without drama. He knew he wasn't interested in girls, and experimentation with boys at school confirmed his suspicions that he was gay.

He limited his encounters to ones in which he topped. Oral sex at an all-male boarding school was common enough, and between his physical stature and his family’s prominence, no one ever questioned his dominance. The truth was, he didn’t trust anyone enough to participate submissively. These trysts never went beyond the purely physical: no boyfriends, no messy emotional entanglements, no awkward breakups. The last thing he needed was an overwrought bedmate in hysterics about 'feelings'.

He never mentioned the riding crop to his partners. Most of his classmates dreaded canings and whined about them for days afterwards. To admit to enjoying them, or any sort of pain, would be tantamount to social suicide. Public-school prudes were not to be trusted, not even gay ones.

When he was seventeen and home for Christmas, he told Sherlock he was gay. Sherlock gave him a completely mystified expression and replied, "Well, of course you are, I figured that out years ago. So am I." Even at ten, his brother was already alarmingly observant and more precocious than he'd ever been.

University didn't provide much time or liberty for experimentation with pain, and he suspected his small-minded classmates wouldn't have favourable opinions on the subject anyway. The extent of their knowledge about 'alternative sexuality' seemed to be limited to the 'MP hangs himself while wearing women's underpants' category of tabloid rubbish. Their knowledge of S&M was bound to be even more atrocious.

He limited himself to academic readings on the subject. There were surprisingly few papers in the 'human sexuality' area, but plenty regarding the neurochemical response to pain. Psychology texts categorised his pleasurable responses to pain as 'abnormal,' but he didn't much care. It worked for him. He idly wondered why the psychology 'scholars' weren't talking to the neurobiologists, who clearly seemed to have a more objective perspective on the matter.

After a few overly-emotional romantic partners, with whom he never discussed the subject of pain, he gave up on sex and relationships altogether. His studies left him little time for socialising anyway, and it didn't seem like much of a loss.

A mutual friend introduced him to Jonathan during his final year. Jonathan asked him out for dinner a couple of times, but it never went beyond that. Mycroft was absorbed in his studies (Philosophy, Politics and Economics) and still harboured the belief that he could subsist without emotional interaction for an indefinite period of time.

They'd lost contact after university, but when Jonathan looked him up seven years later and asked him out for lunch, he readily agreed. His career as a young politician left him with few opportunities to socialise, and he regretted not having been more social in university when he'd had the chance.

Lunch had led to dating, which had led to a relationship, which, _God help him_ , had led to falling madly in love with the junior barrister for Crowhurst & Carville.

Years of keeping his emotional distance caught up with him all at once, and the effect was devastating. Mycroft was completely besotted. After just a month of dating, he asked Jonathan to move into his flat. Jonathan agreed.

That Christmas, he took Jonathan home to meet Mummy and Sherlock. Mummy had been surprisingly welcoming.

"It's so lovely to see you happy, darling. I was worried you'd never find anyone."

She always did have a way with a backhanded compliment.

Sherlock, twenty-one now and almost finished at Cambridge, had given Jonathan a hard stare for what seemed like minutes; in reality, it was probably only seconds. Then he'd pasted on that superficial smile of his and greeted Jonathan as warmly as Mummy had.

After dinner, Sherlock dragged him off into a corner.

"I don't like him, My."

He knew better than to question Sherlock's judgement; it was much more useful to get reasons.

"What about him don't you like?"

"He's rude to the staff. I don't trust him."

"I…" Mycroft thought for a moment and realised Sherlock was right. "I suppose he was. But he's never been rude to me."

"Not yet," he said with a worried look. "I know you like him, My, but be careful."

He gave Sherlock a quick hug.

"I will, thank you."

He and Jonathan went back to London and settled into a routine of sorts, both consumed by their respective jobs. Long days usually turned into long nights, wading through reams of paper.

Their sex life dwindled as their workload increased, and Mycroft found himself more relieved than worried about it. Six months into their relationship, and he still hadn't found the nerve to bring up 'the pain thing.'

It was irrational and stupid. If it had been anything else (or any _one_ else), he would have just put it out there and waited for the inevitable backlash. He really didn't care what people thought. But he cared what _Jonathan_ thought, and he was worried that Jonathan would leave over this. He even considered visiting a professional dominatrix, but dismissed the idea out of hand. He refused to violate Jonathan's trust just to satisfy his own base needs.

In an effort to resurrect their sex life, Mycroft invited Jonathan to come with him to buy lubricant and condoms at a London sex shop.

"I thought you were too busy for sex," Jonathan sniped.

"I'm sorry. I've been caught up with all the work for the elections; I can go to the shop by myself. I just thought we could enjoy a night out; perhaps we can get dinner?" It came out sounding more defensive than he'd intended.

Sherlock's comment from Christmas echoed in his head, but he dismissed it. It was his fault, after all; he _had_ been busy with work.

After a dinner that included at least one too many glasses of wine (possibly two), he made a decision. At the sex shop, he added a riding crop and a paddle to their basket.

"You're joking, right?" Jonathan said as his jaw hit the floor.

"Wish that I were. Are you going to run screaming?"

"Are they for you or for me?"

"For me. I'd like you to use them on me."

"Oh." Jonathan stood there looking completely confused, and Mycroft wondered if a different approach would have been wiser. "Why?" Jonathan asked.

"Because I enjoy it," Mycroft replied calmly. He waited for the other shoe to drop.

"Alright," Jonathan replied, hesitantly. "I suppose I'll try anything once."

And that was precisely what had happened.

Jonathan had insisted on the paddle with holes, saying that it looked like it wouldn't be as bad. The shopkeeper had tried to steer them back to Mycroft's original choice, but they'd ignored him.

Later that night, they tried it. Jonathan wielded the paddle like a cricket bat, and Mycroft screamed when the suction caused by the holes gave him almost instant blisters.

"Oh God, Mycroft, are you alright?"

"I'll be fine," he lied through gritted teeth. "Just get me some ice."

He was still trying to find a comfortable position when Jonathan's concern slowly turned to anger.

"Jesus, Mycroft. What on earth possessed you to do this? It's sick. You're a fucking pervert."

Mycroft bristled. _It's not sick, it's who I am,_ he thought, but he didn't say anything. He took a blanket and a pillow, and slept on the sofa.

The next morning, Jonathan was all sweetness and apologies for his outburst of the night before. Mycroft outwardly smiled and accepted the apologies with grace, but Sherlock's words were even louder in his mind. For the first time, he really started to wonder if he'd made a horrible mistake.

He put the riding crop behind his suits in the back of the wardrobe and chucked the paddle in the rubbish bin. Clearly he'd been wrong to trust anyone else with his physical needs, and it was beginning to appear that the same was true of his emotional ones.

But it was easy - too easy - not to rock the boat. He didn't want to be alone, and regardless of their issues, he still loved Jonathan.

He decided to put more effort into their relationship; he _had_ been letting work get in the way of things. Jonathan responded in kind: they made time to go out on dates, their sex life returned, and their arguments were less frequent. Mycroft's desire for pain was never brought up, and Mycroft never mentioned it again. It worked, for a while.

Sherlock finished his studies at Cambridge and had moved to London, taking a flat in a Hammersmith. Mycroft invited him over for a celebratory dinner.

It had not gone well.

Small-talk was not Sherlock's strong suit, but Mycroft was quite proud of the effort he was making. It wasn't until the main course that things really started to fall apart.

"Dear God, Mycroft," Jonathan sniped, "this chicken is awful. Could you have cooked it any longer? It's as dry as a bone."

Sherlock wheeled around and said, "I think it's lovely, and I think you're being rude."

"It's fine, Sherlock," Mycroft said as he tried to smooth things over. "I did overcook it a bit."

Sherlock gave him a look but backed off.

The rest of the meal progressed well enough, if somewhat awkwardly. Sherlock eventually left, and Mycroft started loading plates into the dishwasher. _Two bottles of wine between the three of us. I'm surprised it didn't get any more heated,_ he thought.

Mycroft finished in the kitchen and turned around to see Jonathan blocking the door to the living room.

"Your brother can be a right little prat, can't he?" he said in a menacing tone.

Mycroft sighed. _Should have stopped at the first bottle._ "Don't start, Jonathan. It's been a long night."

"No, I should have made the little prick apologise to me. You let him get away with entirely too much."

Insulting _him_ was one thing. Insulting Sherlock was another.

"Don't talk about him like that. He's my brother," Mycroft said coldly, digging his nails into his palms to prevent himself from saying something he'd really regret.

"I'll talk about him however I want," Jonathan sneered.

Mycroft tried to squeeze past him, but Jonathan's one inch height advantage suddenly seemed like much more. He grabbed both of Mycroft's arms, lifted him slightly off the ground, and threw him into the living room.

Mycroft's forehead slammed into the coffee table, and he slumped onto the floor, dazed.

"Oh, my God. Mycroft, are you alright?"

Mycroft clutched his head and winced. Jonathan reached out to touch his shoulder, and he pulled back. "Don't touch me," he warned.

"I'm sorry, Mycroft. I didn't mean to…"

"Get out," he uttered through gritted teeth. "I never want to see you again."

* * *

He showed up at Sherlock's door a half an hour later.

Sherlock opened the door, took one look at Mycroft, and said, "I'm sorry, My, come in."

He took Mycroft's suitcase and ushered him inside, then he pulled him in for a long hug.

"Sit down; I'll make you some tea."

Mycroft wandered numbly to Sherlock's sofa and collapsed onto it, holding his throbbing forehead.

"Are you going to file a police report?"

He shook his head. "It was accidental. For the most part."

The impact with the coffee table had not drawn blood, but it was already blossoming into an ugly bruise. "Do you have any peas? I should have kept them on for longer."

Sherlock rooted around in the freezer and extracted an ancient, frost-encrusted package of peas. He ran it under the tap for a bit, wrapped it in a teatowel, and gave it to Mycroft.

"Thank you. You should really eat more vegetables, Sherlock," he muttered, distantly.

Sherlock gave a soft laugh. "I should do a lot of things, My." Then his face turned serious. "I'm going to kill him, for one."

Mycroft looked up, his eyes focusing for the first time since he'd stepped into the flat. His voice was much clearer. "Nobody's going to kill anyone."

"It won't be traceable."

Mycroft didn't doubt it. "I stand by my previous statement."

Sherlock handed him a cup of tea. "He hurt you, My."

"He's an arse, and he pushed me, but he didn't mean for me to hit my head on the coffee table. But I told him it was over. I told him to get out."

"And did he?"

Mycroft nodded.

"And then you left?"

"Yes. I suppose I should have stayed. It was my flat."

"No, it's alright. We can have the locks changed."

Mycroft's voice got smaller. "I don't want to go back, Sherlock. I'll get a hotel."

"No, stay here, I've got the room."

"I can't. I just needed to get out of there. I wanted to see you." He idly chewed on one of his fingernails and suddenly looked self-conscious. He started to get up. "I should leave."

"You're chewing on your fingernails, My."

"What?" He looked up vacantly. "Oh, I suppose I am."

"You've never done that in your life. You're the only man I know who gets regular manicures. You're not… you're not you at the moment, alright? Just drink your tea and stop trying to think for a bit. Please."

He grabbed a blanket from the chair. "Lean forward, My." He wrapped the blanket across his brother's shoulders and sat down next to him, covering both of them.

Whatever had been holding Mycroft together chose this moment to fall apart. He collapsed against Sherlock and started sobbing uncontrollably.

Sherlock ran his hands through Mycroft's hair and made quiet soothing noises. "I've got you, My. You're safe."

* * *

Sherlock waited until his brother stopped sobbing before he moved to get up.

Mycroft grabbed for his arm. "Don't go. Please."

"I'm coming back," he reassured him. "I was just going to get more tea. Do you want some? Or something stronger, perhaps?"

"No, tea is fine. Thank you." Mycroft's voice sounded unbelievably frail, and Sherlock internally debated whether or not he should get up at all. Mycroft nudged him, so he went off to the kitchen. He came back with two more steaming cups of tea, with milk and sugar, and some biscuits.

"Sorry, I don't have much food in the house."

"It's fine Sherlock, we just ate. I'm alright."

Sherlock looked at Mycroft's trembling hands and pale skin. Normally he would have argued the point - his brother was about as far from 'alright' as it was possible to get - but he quietly gave Mycroft his tea, put the biscuits on the low table, and sat down next to him. "Drink," he said, as he pushed his body closer to Mycroft and pulled the blanket back around them.

They sat in silence until the tea and biscuits were gone. Sherlock looked at Mycroft; his brother's eyes were red and puffy, and he looked exhausted - physically and emotionally.

"Alright, here's what we're going to do," he stated, in a quiet yet decisive tone. Mycroft looked at him with raised brows as Sherlock continued, "Tomorrow, I will phone your offices and tell them you have food poisoning. That will give us at least a couple of days to get things sorted. I'll go by the flat tomorrow morning and have the locks changed. Then I'll contact Jonathan and arrange a time for him to pick up his belongings. If I had my way, I'd leave them on the street, but I suspect your nature is far more generous than my own."

Mycroft gave him a weak smile.

"You'll tell me what things you need immediately and I'll get them for you while I'm there. We'll have the rest of the items moved professionally."

"No…" Mycroft started to protest, but Sherlock cut in, gently.

"You said you didn't want to go back, My. I took that to mean you don't want to live there; was I wrong?"

"No… but this is ridiculous. I can do all of this." His voice faltered a little, but he continued, "I just need some time."

"Please," Sherlock countered, "let me do this for you, My. You've always taken care of me. Let me take care of you for a while."

Mycroft let out a long sigh and nodded. "Thank you, Sherlock. Are you sure you don't mind if I stay tonight? I'll get a hotel room and start looking for another flat tomorrow."

Sherlock reached his other arm around Mycroft and pulled him into a hug. "For someone so brilliant, you can be incredibly dense, My. Of course you can stay here; I want you to. I have an extra room. I will admit it's set up as a chemistry lab at the moment, but I'll sleep on the sofa until I can make it habitable."

"What about your job? Surely you can't take time away from work like this?"

Sherlock looked away sheepishly. "It's more like… contract work. They're letting me do some chemistry research at Barts. No one will mind if I'm gone for a few days."

"I'll take tomorrow off, Sherlock, but I need to get back to work. I'm not going to sit around here and mope."

"I don't expect you to. Look, you can do some shopping and cook me another dinner if you want. Tonight was the first proper meal I've had in weeks, truth be told. If you want anything other than take-away, I'm afraid you're going to have to make it."

Mycroft gave him a slightly stronger smile this time and said, "You've been living on digestives and cereal again, haven't you?"

"Perhaps," he said as he chewed on his bottom lip, looking guilty. "A bit. Look, it'll be nice having you here. I haven't seen nearly enough of you since I went off to school."

The further away the conversation got from Jonathan and the flat, the stronger Mycroft sounded, and Sherlock aimed to keep it that way. The less time Mycroft was left alone with his thoughts, the better off he'd be.

"Could you help me make up the bed? It goes faster with two. I haven't changed the sheets, um… recently." _Keep him busy and don't leave him alone,_ Sherlock thought.

Mycroft nodded and stood, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders.

Sherlock took in his brother's hunched form and thought, _At this point, changing sheets might be asking too much._

He took Mycroft's hand and guided him down the hallway to his bedroom. The drawers were piled high with books and papers, and a pile of clothes lurked in the corner, but the bed and an overstuffed armchair were surprisingly clean.

"Sit here," Sherlock instructed, "I'll get the sheets."

Mycroft had a small smile on his face but looked like he was about to fall apart again at any second. Sherlock stopped in his tracks. "What is it, My?"

His brother's blue eyes brimmed with tears. "It's nice. It smells like you in here - like your old room at home used to."

Sherlock bit his lip to stop himself from crying and hugged him. Mycroft buried his face in Sherlock's shoulder.

"I hate this. I hate feeling this weak, Sherlock. I'm sorry."

Sherlock held on to him more tightly and kissed the side of his head. "It'll be alright, My. I promise."

He bundled Mycroft up in the blanket and had him sit in the chair. "I'll just be a minute," he assured him.

He returned with fresh sheets and Mycroft's suitcase. He opened it and removed Mycroft's pyjamas and toiletry bag. He handed them to him and said, "Here, get ready for bed."

"But the sheets…"

"I'll do those. The toilet's next door."

By the time Mycroft returned wearing his crisp, blue-striped cotton pyjamas, Sherlock had finished making up the queen bed and was digging through the suspect pile of washing for his own pyjamas. He didn't generally sleep in them unless it was cold, but he didn't feel it was appropriate to sleep on the sofa in a pair of pants, either.

"There you go, all made up," Sherlock said in an overly cheerful voice that he hoped sounded convincing.

Mycroft gave him a weak smile, and he knew it hadn't been nearly convincing enough.

"Sorry." Sherlock said. "Look, I'll be on the sofa if you need anything, alright? Anything at all."

"Wait. Sherlock, I…" Mycroft trailed off.

"What?"

"Will you stay?"

* * *

As soon as the words left Mycroft's mouth, he regretted them. _As if I haven't shown enough weakness already._

"Of course, My." Sherlock stripped off his clothes and put on his own pyjamas.

"Are you sure? I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked."

"You're fine," he said quietly. "Now get into bed so we can get some rest, alright?"

_He's telling me what to do so I don't have to think about it,_ Mycroft noted with a small smile. As mortified as he was by his weakness, he was glad to have Sherlock to support him and take charge for a while. He couldn't imagine facing this alone.

Sherlock climbed into bed beside his brother. "I knew having a ridiculously large bed would come in handy one day," he said. "Try and get some sleep."

Mycroft wasn't sure of the etiquette for this situation. Was it acceptable to hug your own brother when sharing a bed? It seemed like it would be awkward. He reached out and gave his brother's shoulder a quick squeeze. "Thank you."

"Anytime," Sherlock replied, and lazily flipped over so he was lying on his stomach with one arm under his pillow.

Mycroft lay on his back, and flinched when Sherlock draped his other arm across his stomach.

"S'that alright? I usually take up half the bed, and you're warm."

He didn't mind in the least; he just wasn't expecting it. Apparently Sherlock didn't have the same concerns about propriety. "No, it's nice." He covered Sherlock's hand with his own, and for the first time all evening, he started to truly relax.

In the dark silence of the room, he listened to Sherlock's slow breathing. Where had things gone so wrong with Jonathan? Why had he ever trusted him? He could trust Sherlock though, even if no one else was worthy of it.

* * *

Sherlock awoke blearily to the disconcerting notion that someone else was in his room. His bed.

That hadn't happened since university.

He looked over and saw Mycroft, still sleeping peacefully in the same position as the night before.

This was a definite improvement on the incidents in university. Many of those had resulted in hurled invectives, and frequently, hurled books. He'd ultimately decided that sex in his own room wasn't worth the damage to his library. He'd simply remedied the situation by having sex in _other_ people's rooms. Usually, they were his lovers' rooms, but sometimes he got creative.

Most people just assumed that his icy disdain for the general population would naturally lead to a lack of sexual partners. They were wrong. People want what they can't have, or at least what they think they can't have. Being icy and remote had netted him a surprising number of satisfying one-night stands. He did the standing-up, mind. There was no point in letting anyone get emotionally attached. The ones who managed to do so after only one night of sex needed their heads examined anyway.

So, finding Mycroft in his bed was something of a pleasant surprise; his brother wouldn't be hurling any books. Then he remembered what had brought Mycroft here, and he wanted to kill Jonathan.

His brother stirred, and he banished his homicidal thoughts for the time being.

"Morning, My," was all he said. Asking him how he felt seemed insulting; no point in rehashing the obvious.

Mycroft gave him a genuine, unguarded smile, and then his face clouded over as the circumstances surrounding his visit flooded his mind. He attempted another smile, but this one was strained. "Morning, Sherlock."

Sherlock reached over and hugged his brother. "Come on, let's get some breakfast."

"You don't eat."

"But you do. Anyway, I eat sometimes. I just don't happen to have anything edible _here_ , unless you count biscuits. There's a coffee place down the road that serves food."

He glanced at the bruise on Mycroft's forehead; it seemed to have gotten much worse overnight and was now varying shades of yellow and brown and about two inches wide. "I just realised," he said carefully, "that you might not want to go out like that. I'd be happy to go and get food and bring it back if you'd like. Of course," he added quickly, "it's up to you."

Mycroft gingerly touched his forehead and winced. "No, it's alright. I need to move past this, Sherlock; I can't let it define me. There's no shame in it, after all. Besides, most people will just assume I got mugged; I hardly look the type for a pub brawl."

Sherlock smiled. It wasn't Mycroft's usual biting wit, but he realised his brother was making an effort for his sake.

"Some hot food does sound like a good idea," Mycroft added. "I'm really not in the mood for cereal."

"I'm not sure I have enough milk for it anyway. I think I almost finished it with the tea last night."

As Mycroft took off his pyjamas for the shower, Sherlock noticed the finger-shaped bruises on each arm. Mycroft saw him staring.

"He didn't push you, did he," Sherlock said - a statement, not a question. "He lifted you up and threw you."

Mycroft breathed out, deflated. "Hitting my head was still an accident, Sherlock. I'm not going to file charges."

"Will you at least let me get a couple of pictures, in case you change your mind?"

Mycroft wearily nodded his assent, and Sherlock documented his injuries.

"What did you fight about?"

"You have to ask?"

"Not really. He was upset that I challenged his insult, right?"

Mycroft nodded.

Sherlock filed the information away for later. He suspected he might run into Jonathan when he visited the flat, but he couldn't be sure.

A half an hour later, they sat at a small table in the cafe, drinking tea and eating breakfast 'sandwiches.'

"I could have cooked us something, you know."

"The eggs in my fridge aren't to be trusted. Oh, and that reminds me, I've been doing some chemistry experiments. If you're going to cook something, you might want to consider buying new measuring cups. I really need to buy some proper lab glassware."

Mycroft shook his head. "You have money, you know."

"I know… it just didn't seem like a worthy expense when there were some perfectly good Pyrex measuring cups in the kitchen cupboard."

"I despair of you, Sherlock," Mycroft said, but Sherlock noted with satisfaction that there was a small smile on his face.

They ate in silence for a while. Sherlock had no desire to worsen Mycroft's mood with the logistics of the day ahead, but they'd have to discuss it at some point. He just needed to approach this head-on; there was no way to soften it.

"Alright. So… today."

"Yes?"

"I need the phone number of your employer, a list of all the items you wish me to retrieve from your flat, and your key."

"That won't be necessary, Sherlock. I'm going in to work today."

"If I'm not mistaken, you'll need clothing from your flat in order to do that." He'd seen what was in Mycroft's suitcase. There were no suits.

Mycroft went pale and pinched his nose between his thumb and forefinger. When he finally spoke, his voice was pained. "I'll manage, Sherlock. I need to go back to the flat sometime."

His brother's other hand trembled, and Sherlock covered it with his own.

"No, you don't," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "You never have to go back there. Stay with me for a few days. Being stoic about this isn't going to help in the long run, you know. Look at me."

Mycroft took his hand away from his face and looked up. He was close to tears.

"We're going to do what we discussed yesterday. I'll take care of the details at your flat, and you take care of the shopping."

"Do I have _any_ choice in this whatsoever?" Mycroft asked, weakly.

"No, not really."

"Alright," Mycroft said. "Just for a day or two until I find another flat. Thank you."

As they walked back, Mycroft seemed to regain some of his self-assurance. "I think your kitchen is going to take some work. Do you have a shopping list? Food preferences? I seem to recall a fondness for soft boiled eggs and toast 'soldiers'."

"I was _five_ , Mycroft. Leave it to you to remember that," he said, giving Mycroft an affectionate grin. "Whatever you want to get will be fine. Those breakfast sandwiches left a lot to be desired, though. I'm sure anything you make will be infinitely superior."

"Toast soldiers it is, then," he retorted, with just a trace of sarcasm.

As soon as his brother was gone, he phoned Mycroft's office to say that he was ill. Then he left, empty suitcase in hand, for his brother's flat.

Once he got to the building, he checked to see that he was alone and stepped inside its ancient, creaking lift. He used his lock-picking set to change the lift to 'fire' mode, which immobilised it on the ground floor. Just in case. Then, he walked the three flights of stairs to Mycroft's flat.

He let himself in. The sound of the shower meant Jonathan had come back. He walked cautiously down the hall, but the door to the toilet was closed. He sat against the wall directly opposite the door and waited patiently.

Jonathan, wearing nothing but a towel, opened the door to vent the steam out of the small room.

"Fucking hell!" he shouted as he jumped back in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"Actually, I think it's more appropriate for me to ask _you_ that question. I believe my brother told you he never wanted to see you again."

"It's my flat, too."

"Really? I don't recall that you ever paid rent."

"I needed to get ready for work."

"Ah yes," he drawled, "your _work_. What sort of a stance _does_ your firm take on their barristers physically abusing their domestic partners? I'm curious."

"You fucking prick," Jonathan shouted and lunged for him.

Sherlock dodged to the side and quietly said, "I suggest you leave me alone, unless you'd also like assault charges filed against you."

"It was an accident and you know it; he fell against the table. I never touched him."

"The hand-shaped bruises on his upper arms would suggest otherwise. The ones they documented when I took him to the hospital for his concussion."

All the blood drained from Jonathan's face, and his look of outrage turned to fear.

"I suggest you listen to me very carefully, Jonathan."

He nodded.

"First, you will never set foot in this flat again. I phoned a locksmith on my way here; once they've changed the locks, consider the rest of your possessions forfeit. I estimate you have approximately two hours to remove anything you deem important. I think you'll find that's more than generous, considering how grossly you violated my brother's trust."

"But what about…" Jonathan interrupted.

"Let me finish," Sherlock said icily. "Second, if you ever contact my brother again or if you mention this incident to anyone else, copies of the domestic abuse charges will find their way to your firm and to the tabloids. My brother, who is far more kind-hearted than I am, is not inclined to file charges with the police at this time. But I assure you, if you don't stay away from him, that _will_ change. Do you understand?"

"There's no way I can get my things out of here in two hours!" he raged.

Sherlock moved to within an inch of Jonathan's face and practically spat his reply. "You devastate my brother and all you can think about is your bloody possessions? If I had my way, the police would be hauling you out of here in handcuffs, and your family name would be dragged through the mud in the ensuing trial. Consider yourself lucky I'm giving you that long to get your precious _things._ You clearly care more for them than you ever did for Mycroft."

"But I've got my books, my clothes… everything here."

"Consider it an interesting exercise in prioritising."

Jonathan backed away, defensively.

Sherlock followed so he was right up against Jonathan's face. "I'm not finished. You will apologise - to me, since Mycroft never wants to see or hear from you again."

"I… I'm sorry," he sputtered.

"That's _it?_ " Sherlock asked, incredulously.

"I'm sorry I treated your brother poorly."

Sherlock huffed his derision. "Very well. One hour, fifty-five minutes. I suggest you skip your shave this morning."

Jonathan looked like he wanted to punch Sherlock in the face, but he pushed past him and headed for the phone, still wrapped in his towel.

Sherlock stood and watched, arms folded, with a smug grin on his face.

"I need a moving van. It's an emergency… Yes, I said emergency. They need to be here within the hour… Fine, I'll pay four times your rate… What do you mean, you don't have anything?" Jonathan threw the phone at the sofa, where it bounced and fell onto the floor.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as Jonathan retrieved the phone. He was surprised the relationship had lasted as long as it had.

This time, he called a minicab company. "I need the largest MPV you have, as soon as possible." He rattled off the address.

Sherlock, bored now, retrieved the items Mycroft had requested from the flat. He included his brother's nicest suits, which he placed in the garment bag he'd brought. He also removed the riding crop Mycroft had requested from its place behind the suits and put it carefully in the suitcase.

Jonathan raced around the flat, glaring at Sherlock as he tried to decide which of his law texts were worthy of preservation. Sherlock sat on the sofa and observed with an amused grin.

"Do you have to sit there and fucking watch, you little prat?"

"I suggest you treat me with a little more respect, Jonathan. I can be very persuasive when it comes to my brother; I'm sure it wouldn't take much for him to file those charges."

Jonathan left him alone after that.

He phoned the flat to see if Mycroft had returned from his shopping trip. _No answer. Good. The less time he's alone, the better._

The locksmith and the minicab arrived at about the same time. Jonathan left the flat with the first armful of his possessions and pressed the button for the lift.

"Sorry mate, lift's broken," the locksmith said. "I had to take the stairs."

Sherlock stood there with an impassive look on his face. "Yes, it was broken when I got here, too."

"It wasn't broken when _I_ got here," Jonathan cursed under his breath and started running down the stairs with his things.

He came back up trailing a very annoyed-looking minicab driver. "Five times the rate, mind. In cash. I don't do moving services."

Even with the extra help from the cab driver, Jonathan still had to make twelve trips up and down the stairs.

The locksmith watched Jonathan running back and forth to the cab with his belongings and looked at Sherlock sympathetically. "Domestic, eh?"

"Something like that, yes."

"My brother-in-law was a right prick. The best thing my sister ever did was kick him out."

Sherlock just nodded, unsure of the correct response.

By the time he finished, Jonathan looked like he was about to have a coronary. Seventy-two flights of stairs seemed to have taken their toll.

It was far more satisfying than his meagre apology.

"I suppose you're off then?" Sherlock said breezily.

"You'll never hear from me again," Jonathan spat back between wheezing breaths.

"Well, we'll be able to get in touch with you through your firm, should we need to contact you," Sherlock reminded him with a not-so-subtle threat, and Jonathan just glared.

The locksmith finished his work shortly after Jonathan left. Sherlock paid him twice his asking rate and told him to take his sister out for lunch sometime, then he phoned the flat again.

"Hello?" a quiet voice answered.

"My, it's me. Are you alright?" Sherlock suddenly had visions of sleeping pill overdoses and willed himself not to panic.

"I'm fine, Sherlock," he replied, weakly. "I'm just tired."

"I'm finished here. I'll be home in fifteen minutes. Will you be alright until then?"

"I'm not going to kill myself, Sherlock. I'll be fine. Take as much time as you need."

Taking the new keys and Mycroft's possessions, he headed down the stairs. After quickly restoring the lift to working order, he hailed a taxi and headed back to the flat.

* * *

Mycroft returned from Tesco's and proceeded to put away all of the shopping. Sherlock's kitchen was now stocked with at least a week's worth of meals, but by the time he'd finished, he was exhausted. He made himself a cup of tea and gracefully slid onto the sofa. There was no point in being a savage.

He was relieved to hear Sherlock's voice when he answered the phone. He'd privately been worried that his brother would run into Jonathan. He had every faith that Sherlock could handle him, but he really didn't need any extra excitement at the moment. However, the moment Sherlock walked in the door, the energy radiating from his every movement told Mycroft that Jonathan had been there after all. A victorious smile tugged dangerously at Sherlock's lips.

"The shopping go alright?" Sherlock asked, managing a remarkably dull tone of voice.

Mycroft laughed at his transparent attempt at diversion and said, "Out with it, Sherlock. What happened?"

"I ran into Jonathan."

"Well, that's obvious," he said. For the first time since last night, he hadn't flinched when Jonathan's name was mentioned. Perhaps it was the thought that he'd unleashed Sherlock on him. "And…?"

"Do you want to know the details? I don't want to, well…" Sherlock trailed off.

"Please, little brother, tell me everything. You're here and unharmed. Whatever you did to him is only going to make me feel better."

Sherlock's grin was almost feral in its intensity. "You would have been proud of me, My."

He relayed the details to Mycroft, starting with immobilising the lift, and ending with an exhausted, furious Jonathan trying to cram himself into the front seat of a minicab on top of a precarious stack of law texts.

"So you didn't let him take all of his things?"

"No," Sherlock said with a wicked smile, "I told him to prioritise."

Mycroft huffed in amusement. _Retribution, thy name is Sherlock_ , he thought. "Thank you. Very elegantly done, Sherlock, I must say. Even if you did lie through your teeth; because of it, in fact. What made you think to break the lift, though?"

"I wasn't sure he'd be there, but I knew that if he was, I'd make him leave with his things. I just didn't know he'd have to run up and down seventy-two flights of stairs to get them. It was more satisfying than I'd anticipated, I admit."

Mycroft sunk back into the comfortable sofa, suddenly aware that for the first time in two days, he was openly smiling. Perhaps it had been longer; things with Jonathan had been bad for a while. It was a relief just to be around Sherlock. Perhaps his brother would let him stay for a few more days. As much as his mood had improved, he feared that something would set him off and he'd once again be the emotional cripple he'd been that morning. It was comforting to be near him.

"Lunch, My?"

"I didn't think you cooked."

"I have a passing familiarity with sandwiches. I assume you bought some bread and cheese at least?"

"Marmite, even." They shared a grin. They both loved the brown tarry substance, even though Mummy despised it; most likely _because_ she did.

As Sherlock busied himself with the sandwiches, Mycroft's thoughts turned to finding another flat and his mood flagged.

"Perhaps I could get a flat near here," he mused. "It would be nice to see you more often."

"I think you should move in with me," Sherlock countered.

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not." Sherlock turned around, suddenly ignoring the half-made sandwiches.

Sherlock stared at him with a fierce intensity that Mycroft rarely saw, even for Sherlock. It felt like his brother was peeling away the layers of his skin to find out what was underneath.

"What do you _want,_ Mycroft?"

"Sorry?"

"Out of _life_. You don't seem to enjoy your job. God knows Mummy doesn't care what we do, so you might as well do something you enjoy. So what do you want?"

Mycroft laughed half-heartedly and said, "To get out of London; it's driving me mad. I don't really care what I do - I despise my job; it takes up my every waking hour. And the weather is killing me. I know England isn't the sunniest place on Earth, but there have to be better alternatives."

"Now we're getting somewhere," Sherlock said as he handed him a cheese and Marmite sandwich.

"Don't be absurd, Sherlock. I'm not _actually_ leaving London."

"No, you're not," he replied, adding a dramatic pause. "We are."


	17. Sherlock Discovers the Concept of Sexuality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's early years. He finds there's more than one reason that he doesn't fit in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** This chapter contains descriptions of an underage Sherlock discovering his sexuality. It does not contain any depictions of underage sex or nudity.

Sherlock stared out the window as he conjugated Latin verbs in his head. He couldn't wait for September. He'd turned five, and Mummy and Daddy were finally letting him go to boarding school. It was about time, too. Mycroft had been at boarding school for as long as he could remember; he only came home during holidays. When Mycroft was back, he helped him build forts, and Nanny let him stay up late. Best of all, Mycroft was nice to him, just like Nanny was. Mummy couldn't care less, and Father was a tyrant. Mycroft had taught him that word.

Mycroft was almost impossibly old. Twelve. But he told Sherlock exciting stories about boarding school, and boarding school meant that he and Mycroft would always be home at the same times. He never had to be alone with his parents again. They weren't horrible people, but they weren't very nice people, either.

* * *

As soon as he got to school, his immediate comprehension of the subjects and his subsequent boredom made his teacher's lives an absolute hell. They could only give him advanced textbooks for so long - they didn't want him too far ahead of the other students. His Latin teacher eventually hit upon the solution: each time Sherlock got bored and started to cause trouble, he gave him another language to study. Even at the rate he progressed, it gave him endless verbs to conjugate into endless tenses, with more languages than he'd ever go through - at least while he was in _that_ school, and then he wouldn't be their problem anyway.

Sherlock started to associate with boys at least two years older than him; they had better textbooks. Once he started hanging around with the eleven and twelve year old boys, the subject of girls came up. A lot. Most of the boys joined the inane discussions of breasts and body parts with enthusiasm. He didn't, but he wasn't the only one. These others tended to keep very quiet about the whole thing and generally received nothing but bullying for their discretion. Like him, they obviously weren't interested in girls.

This could explain why Mycroft never mentioned any girlfriends.

It also explained his own odd feelings towards certain boys; a sort of intense fascination bordering on mild obsession. He said nothing to anyone. His academic proficiency had earned him enough bullying; he didn't need any more of it. Some things were better left unmentioned at school.

Perhaps that was the other reason Mycroft kept so quiet about his social life.

* * *

By the age of ten, he firmly understood the concept of sexual attraction, at least on an intellectual level. The older boys at school had girlfriends; the boys his age just talked about having them. None of them talked about having _boyfriends_ , which simply backed up his previous observations about the social stigma involved.

One evening during the holidays, after a particularly boring dinner where Mummy went on and on about how well he was doing at school, Sherlock excused himself and went to bed. But instead of sleeping, he curled up on the window seat and read one of his physics books. A movement on the lawn caught his eye and he saw Mycroft's tall, lean shadow move quickly towards the stables.

He had no idea what it was all about, and he didn't think much of it; the book was far too interesting. Then, about fifteen minutes later, Mycroft reappeared. With Colin, the stable boy.

 _That_ was interesting. Far more interesting than the book. Perhaps Mycroft had a boyfriend.

He pulled Mycroft aside the next morning after breakfast. "I need to talk to you," he whispered.

"What is it?" Mycroft asked with a confused look.

"In your room. Not here."

Mycroft shrugged and followed him back to his bedroom. He closed the door behind them.

Sherlock stood with his legs set wide and his arms crossed over his chest, looking indignant.

"Is there something you want to tell me, Mycroft?"

"I don't think so," Mycroft replied, utterly confused.

"I saw you and Colin leaving the stables last night."

Mycroft paled.

"Is he your boyfriend, Mycroft?"

"Oh, God," Mycroft muttered. "Sit down, Sherlock. We need to talk."

Sherlock hopped onto the bed, and Mycroft sat cross-legged in front of him.

"Do you know what being gay means, Sherlock?"

"It means you prefer boys," Sherlock replied.

Mycroft seemed surprised. "Yes, it does. Well, I'm gay."

"Well, of course you are, I figured that out years ago. So am I."

Mycroft gaped at him for a second, then squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn't say anything.

"So, is Colin your boyfriend?" Sherlock pressed.

"Well… sort of," Mycroft replied, carefully.

"Oh," Sherlock said as he pondered the implications of this. He'd thought it was a clear-cut thing, but apparently it wasn't.

"When you say 'sort of', do you mean you have more than one boyfriend? Or that you're not really sure if he's your boyfriend?"

"He's… my boyfriend, yes."

"Is sex as interesting as Lucas claims it is?"

Mycroft seemed horrified. "How old is he?"

"Twelve."

"Oh dear God. He has no business having sex at that age; he's probably just saying that to impress everyone." Then he added, under his breath, "I certainly hope he is."

"When did _you_ first have sex?"

Mycroft shifted on the bed and looked around nervously. "You're only ten, Sherlock. I'm not sure it's appropriate for us to have this discussion yet."

"You decided I was old enough to know you're gay. Why is talking about sex any different?"

"Well, technically, you brought it up, not me. But, sex is… complicated; something you do when you're older. You don't start out with sex."

"What _do_ you start with?" Now things were getting interesting.

"Kissing."

"When did you first kiss boys?"

"When I was fourteen."

"You've had boyfriends for _three years_ and I didn't know about it?" he wailed.

"You were seven, Sherlock. It was hardly appropriate."

Sherlock scowled. "You could have told me."

"I'm telling you now."

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

"Because I really didn't think you'd know what it meant before now." He frowned, and added, "Although it's possible I was wrong about that." Then he gave Sherlock a mystified look and said, "How on _earth_ do you know you're gay, anyway? Or do I even want to know?"

"I've been masturbating for a year now," he replied, proudly. "It's far more effective when I think about boys; thinking about girls was an utter failure. I'm sure further experimental data will back it up."

"I'm sure it will," Mycroft muttered.

Sherlock grinned at him. "You're just worried because you know how thorough I am when I collect data."

"Something like that, yes," Mycroft replied as he rolled his eyes. "Now look," he added, seriously, "I'd prefer it if you didn't mention anything to Mummy or Father - about either of us. Father, especially. He might not take the news well. I think we should wait to tell them when you're a little older, and perhaps we can tell them together. I think if we told them now, they'd just think I'd influenced you. This isn't something you choose, as I'm sure you know, but Father doesn't feel that way - he thinks you can like girls if you try hard enough."

"That's awfully small-minded of him."

"Yes. Yes, it is. Which is precisely why I don't want you to tell them yet, alright?"

He nodded.

* * *

The following evening, he curled up in the window seat again, watching. This time with the light off. He wanted to see if Mycroft would go and see Colin again, but he didn't want his brother to catch him at it. The meeting time from the previous night came and went, but he stubbornly refused to go to bed. The matter warranted at least another hour's worth of observation. The sound of a door and footsteps on the pea-gravel drive snapped him out of a light doze, and he saw Mycroft make his way across the lawn.

He changed out of his pyjamas and stealthily made his way out of the house; there was no way he was missing this. At the very least, he expected kissing. Hopefully more.

He peered through the crack in the closed wooden door of the stables and was surprised to see Mycroft braced against the wall with his pants around his ankles. None of the boys at school had mentioned anything about this. He nearly fell over in astonishment when he saw Colin wielding a riding crop. He landed a blow across Mycroft's pale arse with a sharp 'crack'.

When Mycroft arched his back and moaned with obvious pleasure, Sherlock gasped. He'd expected Mycroft to cry out in pain or beg for mercy, but to see him silently begging for more? He hadn't expected that. He also hadn't expected the warm throbbing in his gut that had become so familiar since he'd learnt to masturbate. The sight of his brother taking a beating was getting him hard.

His brain exploded in a storm of contradictions; the idea of pain as sexual had never occurred to him, but suddenly it seemed so reasonable. Masturbation was stimulation that led to pleasure. Pain was a type of stimulation. Perhaps it could lead to pleasure as well.

But he couldn't figure out the cause of his own arousal. Was it the sight of his brother enjoying himself sexually, or the idea of pain as a stimulant? He doubted Mycroft would allow him any insight into the former, but he could definitely try the latter. He'd have to conduct research on this.

He ran back to the house and crept up to his bedroom, where he had a heady, breathless wank that left him both glowing and torpid. He hated that part of masturbation, but he supposed you had to take the bad with the good. Perhaps pain was different; perhaps Mycroft had figured out how to make sex better.

* * *

The next afternoon, he went to the stables alone and found Colin. He pulled him over to a quiet corner where no one could hear them.

"What is it, Master Sherlock?"

"I saw what you were doing to Mycroft last night," he said in a whisper.

The colour drained from Colin's face. "Please, sir, don't have me sacked. He asked me to, you have to believe me."

"Well, obviously," Sherlock replied, sarcastically. "He was clearly willing and thoroughly enjoying himself, by the looks of it. I have no intention of reporting you."

"I… I don't understand, Master Sherlock. What… why?"

"I'd like you to do the same thing to me."

"Oh God, no. I can't. You're ten, for Christ's sake. I'm sorry sir, I just can't. It's not right."

Sherlock rolled his eyes in exasperation. This was going to require a more direct approach. He glared at Colin and stomped his way back to the house.

* * *

As soon as he saw Mycroft go out to the stables that night, he hurried down the hallway to his brother's room. He closed the door behind him and sat at the head of his bed.

When Mycroft opened the door, he jumped as if he'd seen a ghost.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock! What are you doing here? I thought you went to bed hours ago; you scared the hell out of me!"

Sherlock was impressed. His brother rarely swore.

"I saw you and Colin last night," he said, and then he added, "with the riding crop." He wanted to see Mycroft's reaction. It would tell him more than his brother's words might.

Mycroft closed his eyes as he tipped his head back onto his shoulders. He took a deep breath, and on the exhale, he said 'fuck' with the weighty conviction of someone who never normally used the word. His eyes remained closed as he dropped his head to his chest and started rubbing the back of his neck, nervously.

"I'm sorry, My. I just wanted to know what you were doing," he said, with a note of desperation in his voice. He hadn't intended to upset his brother, and he wasn't sure why Mycroft seemed so profoundly miserable about the whole thing.

Mycroft sighed and dragged himself up onto the bed, facing Sherlock.


	18. Sherlock Discovers Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock discovers the pleasure and usefulness of pain and enlists Mycroft's help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is still ten in this chapter. He'll be fifteen in the next chapter. There will never be underage sex, for what it's worth, just a very guilt-ridden Mycroft and a very pushy Sherlock. However, if you want to skip this chapter, I completely understand. I have included a brief summary at the end of the chapter outlining the relevant points to the story.
> 
>  **Warnings:** sibling incest. See additional notes below.
> 
>  **The short version:** This contains no underage sex.
> 
>  **The long version:** This chapter contains descriptions of an underage Sherlock discovering his sexuality, his sexual response to pain, and Mycroft's conflicted feelings of attraction towards his underage sibling. It does not contain any depictions of underage sex (other than solo masturbation) or nudity. There is consensual infliction of pain which both parties find arousing.
> 
> Thanks to Deklava for the ongoing beta and feedback.

Mycroft couldn't believe it had taken Sherlock this long to find out. Colin had been beating him for four years now.

"Alright," he replied with trepidation; their discussion about sex had been bizarre enough. "What do you want to know?"

"Why do you do it?"

Having a brilliant sibling who came straight to the point could be a blessing at times.

"Because it's pleasurable for me."

"Yes, I saw that you were aroused. Is that what sex is? What Colin was doing with the riding crop? The boys never mentioned that at school."

Less a blessing than a curse, perhaps.

"Oh God," he muttered. "No. No, it isn't," he replied. "Sex is something else." He _really_ didn't want to get into the specifics of that.

"So he crops you, and you become aroused, but it's not sex…" Sherlock said, sounding confused. "Do you even kiss?"

"It's not part of our… arrangement," Mycroft replied with a sigh. "I pay him to crop me. He's not attracted to boys." _Although what I wouldn't give to sink my cock into his delicious arse afterwards. God._ Just the thought of it made him bite his lip, and he was totally thrown off guard by the next words out of Sherlock's mouth.

"I want to try it."

"What, _sex_?" he said, desperately, Colin's arse rapidly fading from his mind.

"No, pain. The riding crop."

Mycroft wasn't sure whether to be relieved that he didn't mean sex or horrified that he meant pain. "Sherlock, no. It's… it's unusual to react this way to pain. I understand that you want to try new things, but…"

"I already asked Colin. He said no."

"Oh, God. _That's_ why he wasn't there tonight."

"I got aroused when I watched him beat you."

_Fuck. This can only end badly._

"I need to find out, My. I need to know if it was the idea of the pain, or if I'm sexually attracted to you."

 _Oh God, no. I cannot be having this conversation with my ten year old brother._ Mycroft tried not to panic; he closed his eyes for a few seconds to steel his nerves, then he swallowed and decided to pursue the pain aspect of the conversation. He certainly wasn't prepared to deal with the _incest_ side of it. He was barely prepared to deal with any part of it at all.

"Alright, Sherlock. I will consider assisting you with pain side of things, but I refuse to participate in anything sexual. You're ten."

He was about to add ' _And we're brothers_ ,' but he stopped himself. Sherlock's intelligence and uniqueness had already deprived him of a happy childhood. What point was there in adding guilt and shame to the equation?

"I don't see what my age has to do with it," Sherlock muttered.

"If you're going to experiment sexually," he said gently, "it should be with boys your own age. There are other boys like you at school, right?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Make friends with them. Go out and do things together; non-sexual things. For God's sake, don't just go up to them and tell them you want to conduct sexual experiments with them. Maybe you'll find someone you're interested in, and if he's interested as well, then you can try things."

"That sounds like an awful lot of work."

"It sort of is."

Sherlock pondered that in silence for a few, long moments.

"So should I experiment with pain with them, too?"

Mycroft blanched. "Oh, Sherlock," he said, quietly. "I'm sorry. No, you shouldn't, people won't understand. I'll help you with that. Tell me exactly what you want to do. I won't necessarily agree to any of it, but I promise to consider it."

"I want you to crop me just like Colin crops you."

He thought for a moment before responding. "Alright, we can try that. I'll crop you and you can see what effect it has."

"Just like he does it, with no trousers."

 _Oh God._ "No, I can't do that," Mycroft said firmly. "Over your clothes only. Not negotiable."

"They still give bare-arsed canings at school," Sherlock whined. "I've heard about them."

"Yes, but _I'm_ not the one giving them. Like I said: clothed. You don't even know if you'll like this yet. Most people find it very painful."

"Wait, I'm confused," Sherlock interjected. "I thought you said you enjoyed the pain. You just implied that you don't find it painful. Which is it?"

Mycroft blinked at him for a second. It was a remarkably insightful question, even for Sherlock. "It's difficult to explain, Sherlock, but I'll try. It seems like my brain gets things wrong sometimes, especially when I'm aroused. Things that should hurt… well, they still hurt a bit, but they're more pleasurable than painful."

Sherlock pondered this for a few moments, then nodded. "Please, Mycroft. Let me try it. We don't need to go to the stables; you have a crop in your wardrobe. I found it this afternoon."

Mycroft sighed. _There's no such thing as privacy when it comes to a little brother._ "I'm well aware of the contents of my wardrobe, Sherlock. Do you want to do this now?" There was no stopping Sherlock once he had an idea in his head. He might as well get it over with.

"Yes," he nodded, eagerly.

"Very well. Bend over the bed. I'll start out lightly and make the blows progressively harder. Tell me when to stop, alright?"

"Yes. I'm ready."

 _I'm not sure I am,_ Mycroft thought. He wasn't sure what he'd do if Sherlock found this arousing.

After a few light taps with the crop, and no comment from Sherlock, he struck him a little harder. Sherlock flinched.

"Sorry," Mycroft apologised, and stepped back.

"No, keep going. It was just getting interesting."

He kept going. When Sherlock actually moaned, he dropped the crop like it was a hot poker.

"Why'd you stop?" Sherlock begged.

"Because it's wrong for me to do something that arouses you. I don't care how intelligent you are; you're ten." _And hearing you moan like that shouldn't turn me on. Oh God, I'm going to Hell._

"I like it, My. It feels good. It's like my skin is buzzing, almost."

Sherlock's description temporarily drew him out of his guilt. It was almost exactly how he would have explained it, as well. He wasn't sure whether to be happy or sad about this turn of events. In one way, it was fantastic to know he wasn't alone in this, but now Sherlock had to deal with it, too.

"It seems like we're wired the same in more than one way, Sherlock," he sighed heavily as he sat on the bed. "Here, sit up."

Sherlock flipped over so they were seated next to each other.

Mycroft kept his eyes firmly on the window. If his brother had an erection under his trousers, he didn't want to see any hint of it.

Sherlock had no such issues and stared openly at his brother's groin.

"I know why I'm aroused, My, but why are you?"

"I don't know, Sherlock," he replied wearily, but it was a lie, and he suspected Sherlock knew it.

They both sat there for a long time without saying anything. Mycroft eventually spoke.

"Sherlock, you know how I asked you not to talk to Mummy and Father about being gay?"

"Yes."

"The way we respond to pain is much less common than being gay. People aren't going to understand if you try and explain it to them; some people will get very, very upset about this and want to send you to a doctor. It's very important that you don't trust anyone with this, do you understand?"

"I trust you with it."

Mycroft's heart broke, or perhaps this was just how it felt to care too much. Perhaps it was the same thing. He didn't know. He bit his lip to hold back the tears, and pulled Sherlock into a tight hug and didn't let go.

* * *

The next evening, there was a quiet knock on Mycroft's door before it opened a crack. Usually his brother just barged in.

"You're never this quiet, Sherlock. What's going on?" Mycroft said, but he didn't have to ask. He'd been up half the previous night trying to dissect his feelings regarding Sherlock's response to pain, or, more accurately, _his_ response to it; he hadn't come up with anything helpful. There was no good excuse for it, and he still felt guilty.

"Will you do it again, My?"

Mycroft tried to mask his expression, but Sherlock, as usual, was too quick and saw everything.

"You feel guilty about it. You shouldn't, you know," Sherlock said. "It's really no different than teaching me how to masturbate. I just figured out how to do _that_ by myself."

"Oh, God," Mycroft muttered.

"I thought you were an atheist," Sherlock replied.

"You're turning me back to the Church, apparently."

"Really though, I don't see the difference. This makes me feel good, but I can't do it by myself. You have Colin to help you. I don't have anyone."

It stung, but it was true. He'd inadvertently opened up a whole new sexual outlet for his brother, only to tell him there was nothing he could do about it.

Sherlock scrutinised him. "Oh," he said with a sudden realisation, "that's not the part you're feeling guilty about, is it?"

Mycroft couldn't even answer him; he just shook his head. Once again, he wasn't sure if Sherlock's brilliance was a blessing or a curse.

"I don't see why you should feel guilty about _that_. It's normal to find other people's arousal stimulating, isn't it? Isn't that why people look at pornography?"

Mycroft gave his brother a weak smile. It did make sense, actually, and he was going to cling to that for all it was worth. "You're entirely too brilliant for your own good, Sherlock. But yes, you're quite right."

"So, will you?"

Mycroft sat there for what felt like minutes. "I… I don't know."

"Please?", Sherlock begged, and gave him a desperate look.

"Alright," he relented, "but you have to realise that you won't be able to have this at school."

"What _do_ you do at school?"

"Mostly, I wait until the holidays. It builds character," Mycroft replied, only half-joking. He'd managed to smooth things over with Colin, so at least he did still have that.

Sherlock went to Mycroft's wardrobe, removed the riding crop hidden behind the suit jackets, and presented it to his brother.

"I have one other stipulation, Sherlock."

"Yes?"

"Any arousal this instigates must be dealt with in private."

Sherlock gave him a meaningful grin. "For either of us, you mean."

Mycroft blushed fiercely, but managed a strained 'Yes.'

"I think you're making too much of it, but alright."

"Thank you," Mycroft said with relief and sucked in a deep breath to soothe his nerves.

"Will you let me tell you when to stop this time?" Sherlock asked. "You stopped when I really started to enjoy it last night."

Mycroft nodded, and it was all he could do to mutter, "Bend over the bed." The memory of Sherlock's reaction the previous evening was already affecting him. Sherlock didn't seem to care, but Mycroft didn't want him to see, all the same.

Sherlock's arms were at his sides and he shifted his shoulders, trying to find a better position.

"Put your arms in front of you and grab onto the sheets; it'll be more comfortable. Tell me when you're ready."

"I'm ready. Don't start out so slowly this time. I could barely feel it."

"Precocious and pushy," Mycroft said with a small laugh.

Mycroft landed the first blow, and Sherlock immediately reacted with an 'unf' of surprise.

As they continued, it became more difficult for him to watch Sherlock's reactions. What started out as small moans quickly led to louder cries of pleasure, and he writhed, almost rutted, against the sheets.

"Quiet, Sherlock!" he admonished. "You'll get us both caught." His ragged voice conveyed his own state - shamefully hard and aroused. He wasn't sure how much longer _he_ was going to last, if this kept up. Already, his cock was straining against his trousers and every now and then he allowed himself a hard squeeze with his other hand. He was immensely glad Sherlock couldn't see him, but there would be no hiding it as soon as his brother sat up.

"Harder, My."

_I've unleashed a monster. A ten-year-old, precocious monster who's just discovered he's addicted to sensation._

He didn't have much experience wielding the crop - usually he was on the receiving end - but it seemed like Sherlock's pain tolerance was surprisingly high. He increased the force, and Sherlock just sucked in a shuddering breath and took it, with obvious pleasure.

Two more strikes, and Sherlock spoke: "Think… I have to stop," he breathed.

Mycroft thought, at first, that Sherlock had reached the limit of his tolerance for pain, but it was nothing like that.

Sherlock pushed himself off the bed and Mycroft bit his lip as he saw his brother's flushed face and the lust written across it in broad strokes. He rushed from the room and Mycroft heard Sherlock's bedroom door slam shut down the hallway.

Mycroft pushed his pants and trousers just low enough so he could reach his straining cock and dropped to his bed. His earlier guilt had been at least temporarily replaced by blinding lust, and he groaned as he made contact with his overheated skin.

It was over almost embarrassingly quickly. He hadn't had an orgasm that intense in years, especially not by his own hand. He bit his wrist to stop from crying out.

He'd never had such a strong reaction to watching someone take pleasure like that. He was still attempting to convince himself that it had nothing to do with Sherlock when he realised the door had been open the entire time.

 _Bloody hell,_ he thought as he slammed it shut _._ He grabbed some tissues and quickly cleaned himself off. _What if we'd been caught? They'd have me sent away. God knows what they'd do to Sherlock._ If this were to continue, they'd have to be a lot more careful.

A few minutes later, Sherlock wandered in wearing a sated expression; it seemed incredibly out-of-place on his normally nervous features. He glanced at the bite marks on Mycroft's wrist but said nothing.

Mycroft gave him a self-conscious smile.

Sherlock shrugged. "You seem to think it bothers me. I don't know why." He sat down on the bed next to Mycroft. "The addition of pain definitely improved my masturbation session afterwards. It took much less time than it usually does, and it was more intense," he added, nonchalantly. "The orgasm still leaves me dull-witted, though. Have you figured out a way around that?"

Mycroft smiled, weakly. "No, it sort of goes with the orgasm. Most people enjoy the feeling."

"I can't imagine why," he muttered. "The pain was fantastic though. I think without clothing, the results would be even better."

"No!" Mycroft exclaimed, "The clothes stay on. Not negotiable."

Sherlock shrugged and muttered, "You're no fun," but he let it go. Then, he looked over at Mycroft with an expression of genuine curiosity and asked, "Have you ever tried anything other than a riding crop?"

Mycroft let out a small huff of amusement. _I never could deny him anything, not even the most embarrassing personal details._ He nodded, slowly.

"Well?" Sherlock urged.

"I was twelve, and I got caught playing with acids in the chemistry lab."

"You burned yourself with acid?"

"God, no!"

"Well, what were you doing?" Sherlock interrupted.

"I was working on a better recipe for invisible ink. Anyway, they still caned boys as punishment then, although it's less common now. I bent over the Headmaster's desk, pants around my ankles, and as I took my punishment, I found myself unusually aroused. I knew enough of caning from the other boys to realise it wasn't a standard reaction. As soon as it was finished, I pulled my trousers back up, hurried out of the room, and hoped nobody had noticed."

"Did they?"

"No. But they did wonder why I kept getting caught for the most mundane of infractions. As I got older, I couldn't risk a poor disciplinary record, and I had to stop. That summer, I realised that a riding crop would make an excellent substitute. Colin had always been trustworthy and wasn't averse to making a little extra money, and we came to an arrangement."

"So how do you manage it at school now?"

"Well, shortly after I stopped getting myself thrashed for minor infringements of school regulations, I discovered kissing." He didn't want to elaborate any further, Sherlock _was_ only ten, after all.

"And I suppose you're not going to help me with _that_ ," Sherlock asked, half smiling.

"Certainly not."

"Not even when I'm older?"

Mycroft felt the heat rising in his cheeks again. Half of him wanted to throttle Sherlock; the other half wasn't sure what to do.

"You'll find plenty of other people eager to assist you with that, I'm sure," Mycroft replied, neatly sidestepping the question. Sherlock didn't seem to notice and stayed mercifully quiet for a few minutes.

Sherlock's mood seemed to deepen then, and he stared intently at his socks. The air grew heavier around them. When Sherlock looked up, there was a vulnerability in his eyes that hadn't been there before.

"My?" he asked with some hesitation, "Can I ask you something odd?"

"You rarely do anything else," he replied, with no sarcasm in his voice. It was the truth, after all.

"Is it ever… noisy… in your head?"

Mycroft's eyes widened without thinking. He thought he was alone in that: the echoes and racing thoughts and the overload of constant information. He'd thought for years that it was some form of madness; perhaps it was. He'd never mentioned it to a soul. He never realised Sherlock's mind would be so utterly similar to his own, but it made a certain kind of sense. His sexuality, his response to pain, and now this. _God. What must our gene pool look like?_ He made a mental note never to have children and then realised it probably wasn't going to be an issue anyway.

"Yes, Sherlock. It's noisy in my head too. All the time," he said, trying to sound reassuring.

"Is everyone like that?"

"No, I don't think so," he replied carefully.

"Does the pain make it quieter for you, too?"

Mycroft nodded.

"Why? It seems like it should make it worse."

"I'm not sure. I think it gives our minds a point of focus. Like the lens of a telescope."

"Do you ever use it as a tool… for when your brain gets too loud?"

He looked at Sherlock and despaired. _What have I done? He's found this, and now he can only use it four times a year on school holidays. It's fine for me; I can make do with sex. He doesn't even have that. God knows masturbation never helped me much._

Mycroft nodded and stood up. "I do, but not in the same way, not when I'm at school." _No stables, no Colin, and nowhere near as much fun_ , he thought.

He dug through his top desk drawer and produced two washing pegs. He rolled up one sleeve and held the peg so the jaws brushed the crook of his elbow. Then he let it close on the tender flesh and drew in a soft breath as the wooden jaws bit into the skin.

Sherlock watched him, rapt.

"These hurt, and they let you focus, but they don't leave permanent marks or do any real damage. You have to promise me, Sherlock, you can never use _anything_ that hurts you in a permanent way."

Sherlock nodded, rolled up his shirt sleeve, and held out his arm towards his brother.

Mycroft had a sudden, jarring vision of Sherlock as a junkie, and shuddered.

"You have to promise me," he pleaded. "It's important."

"I promise, My," Sherlock said with confusion in his voice.

"Alright," Mycroft replied, and gently let the peg close on his brother's soft skin. _Dear God. What am I doing? Is this even right?_ He desperately hoped a non-destructive source of pain and stimulation would be enough to forestall more 'creative' ideas his brother might conceive.

Sherlock's eyes lost their focus and his breathing deepened as the wooden jaws bit in. A small smile played across his lips.

"Does it help, little brother?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Good. Only use them when you really need to. You can learn to do the same thing with your mind, but sometimes it's necessary to resort to pain when there's too much noise."

They worked on that, too. Every day for the rest of the holiday, Mycroft trained Sherlock to quiet his mind. He didn't want to send him back to school defenceless against his own brain.

He tried to dissuade Sherlock from regular beatings, worried he'd become overly dependent on them (although at this point, he wasn't sure who was becoming more dependent). However, by the time the holiday was over, Sherlock's evening thrashing and its subsequent activities were a regular part of their routine.

Mycroft did insist that Sherlock abstain from his post-masturbatory evaluations. It was bad enough that the sight of Sherlock bent over his bed aroused him; the last thing he needed was a play-by-play description of what his brother did afterwards.

He sent him back to school with a handful of pegs, a kiss on the top of his head, and - at Sherlock's insistence - promises of future beatings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter overview:** (for people who don't want to read the whole chapter but want the main points)
> 
> Sherlock asks Mycroft why he lets Colin crop him, and he explains that he finds pain pleasurable. Sherlock wants to try it and pressures Mycroft to crop him. He tells Mycroft that he might be attracted to him sexually, and he wants to determine if his arousal was caused by seeing him with Colin or by the idea of pain. Mycroft eventually gives in and crops Sherlock (fully-clothed), who enjoys the pain sexually. Mycroft is horrified to discover that he's turned on by the sight of Sherlock enjoying himself. Guilt ensues.
> 
> Mycroft encourages Sherlock to develop friendships and eventual relationships with boys at school, but tells him that he can't confide in others about the pain aspect, as people won't understand.
> 
> The next day, Sherlock wants to do it again. They do, this time masturbating in their own rooms afterwards. More guilt ensues. Sherlock knows that Mycroft finds the whole thing stimulating and tells him he doesn't mind. Then Sherlock asks for details about how Mycroft discovered his interest in pain. (It was in boarding school.)
> 
> Sherlock asks if Mycroft has the same 'noise' in his brain, and if the pain always makes it go away. Mycroft realises that their brains are similarly noisy and overstimulated; the pain helps them focus and quiet their minds. Mycroft teaches Sherlock other methods he can use, while he's alone at school, to focus his mind.


	19. Deductions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock discovers another way to occupy his overstimulated brain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings** : This contains no underage sex, but Sherlock is twelve. There are mentions of consensual infliction of pain between Mycroft and Sherlock.
> 
> Beta: deklava

Mycroft spent his time away from Sherlock immersed in guilt. The thrashings might improve Sherlock’s ability to cope with his overstimulated brain, but his own reaction to seeing his brother aroused was completely unacceptable. And wrong. The worst part was that Sherlock knew he got off on it and didn’t mind in the slightest. But the guilt was crippling.

He resolved to put an end to it during the next holiday break, but Sherlock’s desperate pleas wore him down almost immediately. Sherlock refused to understand why they should stop when the beatings were so much more effective than the pegs. And more pleasurable.

Mycroft couldn’t tell him why he wanted to stop - he didn’t want to admit to _himself_ that he was attracted to his brother, and he certainly wasn’t about to tell Sherlock. He sought relief from Colin, in the form of increasingly brutal beatings that left his arse and upper back raw. Colin wasn’t thrilled about it, but he was easily convinced with more pocket money. The repeated sessions left him with an almost constant ache as he sat or whenever his shirt pulled across his skin, and he discovered that fiercely hot showers reignited the pain as well. The mental clarity it offered helped him cope with the torrent of emotions and swirling chaos that overwhelmed him whenever Sherlock demanded another thrashing.

It would have been easier to stay at school during the holidays, except for two glaringly obvious facts: Sherlock needed him, and he needed Sherlock. They had no one else who understood them.

* * *

The beginning of his schooling at Cambridge provided some relief from the onslaught of guilt and self-loathing. He buried himself in his studies and ignored the social events and cliques that he saw only as useless distractions. He tried not to think about Sherlock.

His brother wrote to him from school on a fairly regular basis, mostly expressing his utter boredom and his disgust with the idiocy of his classmates. Mycroft commiserated and sent him advanced textbooks as a form of distraction.

They both longed for the holidays.

Once they were together, Sherlock, never content to leave well enough alone, brought up Mycroft’s reluctance to continue their arrangement.

“I _need_ this, Mycroft. I still don’t understand why your sexual reaction bothers you. It doesn’t bother me, and who else is going to beat me?”

They came to an arrangement: both of them would pretend that Mycroft wasn’t aroused, and the thrashings would continue. It was ludicrous, but it gave Sherlock what he needed, and Mycroft didn’t have to deal with Sherlock addressing the issue. They ignored the white elephant in the room.

The spring after Mycroft’s nineteenth birthday, he received a phone call from Mummy telling him that his father was dead. Drowned. He wanted to be the one to tell Sherlock - Mummy’s hysterics would not go over well - and he was relieved to hear that she hadn’t phoned him yet.

He broke the news to him without excessive sentiment. Their father had been, to put it charitably, an absent parent. ‘A remote, homophobic bastard’ was probably more accurate.

“Did she tell you what happened?” Sherlock asked.

“Just that he drowned in the lake behind the manor. Swimming.”

“Well, that seems unlikely. I don’t remember the last time he did any sort of exercise.”

“Nor do I. Look, they’ll give us leave from school for the funeral. I’ll make the arrangements with your headmaster. Take the first train home and I’ll meet you at the station this afternoon.”

“I miss you, Mycroft. It’ll be good to see you.”

Despite the reason for their return home, he couldn’t have agreed more. “You too, Sherlock.”

* * *

By the time they arrived home, Mummy was in her room, ‘recovering’. A few quick words with the maid confirmed that she’d been there most of the afternoon, and they didn’t expect her out anytime soon.

“Should we go and see her?”

“Not yet, Sherlock. She’s probably drugged into oblivion at the moment. Let’s leave it until later; she doesn’t need to know we’re home yet. What do you want to do in the meantime?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s clear it wasn’t an accident. We need to figure out what actually happened. I want to see the body.”

By now, Mycroft knew better than to argue when Sherlock wanted something.

The local police weren’t exactly experienced with drownings, accidental or otherwise.

“We dragged him out of the lake this morning, sir. Your mother said he’d gone out for a swim late last night and when she woke up he wasn’t there.”

Sherlock flashed him an urgent look and flicked his eyes towards the morgue. Sombre looks and a few well-acted tears from his brother gained them entrance to see the body - their protests about the impropriety of a twelve-year old in the morgue were assuaged with a little cash.

“We’d like to be alone with him, if that’s all right,” Mycroft told the attendant.

“It’s really not allowed…”

“Please.” Mycroft gave him a particularly desperate look and glanced in Sherlock’s direction, whose eyes welled up in tears, on-cue.

“Sorry sir, of course.”

As soon as the man was gone, Sherlock removed the drape from his father’s head and chest and started to examine him. It was a fairly gruesome sight, but Sherlock seemed undeterred.

“Look, Mycroft: the tissue decay alone shows he didn’t die last night. I’m amazed they even believe Mummy’s story. Besides, they said they ‘dragged him out’ this morning. It implies that he wasn’t floating. Drowning victims float, at least for a while.”

Mycroft nodded; he was right. “It is a Monday; he could have been in there all weekend without attracting attention. It’s not exactly a public spot, and his office wouldn’t have missed him until today.”

“If it was an accident though, why didn’t she phone sooner?” For the first time, Sherlock sounded vulnerable. “Do you think she killed him?”

“I’m not sure,” Mycroft replied. He wasn’t. Father had kept a mistress for years; it was possible his mother had discovered the truth. He didn’t think she was capable of killing him because of it, but crimes of passion weren’t supposed to make sense. “I don’t think so,” he added. “Come on, let’s get back to the house.”

“Wait, I’m not done. Do you see his clothes around here? They must have put his belongings somewhere.”

They eventually found a pair of swimming trunks in the corner in a plastic bag. Sherlock fished them out and inspected them.

“Well, now I’m certain. Either she killed him or he killed himself.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Because?”

“Because they’re cheap ones from Marks & Spencer’s.” He showed Mycroft the tag. “You know he’d never wear anything that didn’t come from London. Besides, as you pointed out, he doesn’t exercise. He’d gained a lot of weight in the past few years; I doubt he owned a pair of swimming trunks that fit. She had to go out and buy a pair in a hurry so she could put him in the lake and make it look like he’d drowned.”

Sherlock’s theory was remarkably sound.

“So,” he continued, “either she killed him, or she’s trying to cover up his suicide.” He put the trunks back into the bag. “All right, now I’m finished. We need to question Mummy. I don’t think they’ll suspect her; I doubt they’ll even do an autopsy if Mummy doesn’t insist on one.”

“We’re not questioning Mummy - not yet, at least - but I do agree this bears further investigation. Come on, and try not to look so excited about your deduction on the way out - you’re supposed to be grieving and in shock.”

Sherlock’s face immediate morphed into a mask of childlike suffering, and Mycroft silently marvelled at his acting skills. They were already terrifyingly good.

Mummy was still sequestered in her room when they got back. They spoke with the more senior members of the staff, who rather nervously confirmed that their father had been at supper the previous evening. A few words with Colin and some of the other junior staff told a different story: their father hadn’t been seen since early Friday night.

Sherlock dragged him hurriedly towards their father’s study. “We don’t actually know what killed him, My, but I don’t think she did it. If she wanted to kill him, she would have planned more carefully. She wouldn’t have bought the tacky swimming trunks.”

“I tend to agree. You know, Father did have a mistress. It’s possible Mummy found out about her, but even if she did, I don’t think she would have resorted to murder. She’d be more likely to publicly humiliate him and get a divorce.”

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks, and his eyes widened. “That’s it!”

“What?”

“Of course she didn’t do it; she was just covering up his suicide! Talk about public humiliation; she’d never live that down - a husband who’d rather kill himself than live with her.”

Mycroft nodded; Sherlock’s theory made a lot of sense. “As brilliant as your deduction is, Sherlock, we can’t discuss it with anyone; they’d almost certainly prosecute her.”

“I suppose so, and that would be even _more_ humiliating.” He sighed. “It’s nice to know she’s not capable of murder: ‘Obstruction of Justice’, at most.” He looked up at Mycroft. “Why do you think the bastard killed himself?”

“ _De mortuis nil nisi bonum_ , Sherlock.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, I know, but he was never a good father, My. Besides, he would have hated us if he’d found out we were gay; as it was, he just ignored us. We should probably be thankful.”

“Sherlock…”

“What? It’s true.”

“Look, let’s just think about Mummy at the moment. Even if we aren’t grieving, she is - well, leaving her misguided attempt at social self-preservation aside.”

“Don’t you want to find out why he did it? Or even _how_ he did it?”

“I do. But I also don’t think we’ll ever know for certain. If he left any sort of note, I’m sure Mummy got rid of it. As for how, it’s sort of a moot point.”

“I think it was probably some sort of overdose. Damn! We should have taken blood samples while we could.”

“Sherlock.” He took his brother by the shoulders, and he could almost feel the energy flowing through him. “You’ll be expected to play the role of the grieving son for the next week.”

“Of course,” he said with another roll of his eyes. “I believe I can be utterly convincing. Just, come _on_ ,Mycroft, there’s probably still evidence to be found. We need to examine the study; he was always in there.”

“Sherlock. You know we’ve talked about the noise in our heads, right?”

“Of course.”

“What’s it like at the moment?” he asked quietly, his words heavy with implication.

Sherlock blinked, twice. “It’s not there at all,” he replied with awe.

“I didn’t think so. I believe your brain needs more stimulation than mere textbooks can provide. It thrives on puzzles; observations.”

“But there won’t always be puzzles.”

“No. But there will always be people to observe. _This_ is how you’ll get through school without the boredom and the noise in your head. You can manage it with this, not with pain.” He looked away. Even as he said it, Mycroft died a little. As much as the guilt about their relationship consumed him, he really didn’t want to give it up.

Sherlock gave him a defiant stare. “I’ll manage it with both.”

* * *

Mycroft went back to Cambridge, determined to ‘pursue a healthy relationship’ - whatever that meant. He at least wanted to be rid of his virginity in a traditional manner.

It turned out to be surprisingly easy to find someone with whom to have sex. He surveyed the field of well-heeled twits and narrowed it down to three choices. Of those, Arthur seemed the least pompous and irritating. Although he wouldn’t realise it until much later, Arthur’s physical resemblance to Sherlock might have played an unconscious role in his decision. It was probably for the best that he didn’t pick up on it at the time.

After a perfunctory date consisting of dinner and dry political discussion, they ended up back in Mycroft’s room.

“I’m thrilled you asked me out,” he said, gazing at Mycroft with an adoring smile. “I’ve fancied you for months, you know.”

Oh dear. That was disturbing.

The sex was adequate. They’d both achieved orgasm, so there was that, at least. Topping wasn’t bad. He wasn’t sure about bottoming; he was curious to try it, but it was going to be difficult to find someone he trusted enough. Arthur was certainly not that person. It could wait.

Arthur wanted to spend the night. Mycroft presumed the Mutual Loss of Virginity protocol demanded it, and let him.

It was a bad idea.

After their second date, Arthur suggested they meet his parents. Mycroft feared a third date might lead to a discussion of adoption. He tried to let him down as easily as he could, but the whole thing spiralled into a nightmare. He endured two weeks of sobbing phone calls from a ‘heart-broken’ Arthur, who claimed that Mycroft had ruined his life.

All this for two nights of mediocre sex.

Mycroft decided that sex wasn’t worth the trouble and that ‘healthy relationships’ weren’t his thing anyway. It couldn’t remotely compete with the emotional connection he felt to Sherlock.

He launched back into his studies with a vengeance.


	20. Edinburgh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft escapes to Edinburgh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings** : This contains no underage sex. There are depictions of consensual infliction of pain between Mycroft and Sherlock. Sherlock is fifteen and sixteen during this chapter.

Sherlock was fifteen now, and they were back for the February half term holidays.

They laid on Mycroft’s bed after one of their sessions; Mycroft refused to bend the rules, but he’d become comfortable enough with their routine that they relaxed together after Sherlock had taken care of his masturbation in private. These days, Mycroft fought his own arousal through internalised shame and sheer force of will.

They stared at the ceiling, both lost in thought.

Sherlock moved and let out a small sound of delight as the material of his trousers rubbed against his reddened skin.

Mycroft winced. It was difficult to be reminded just how much pleasure Sherlock took in this; it was easier to believe that he just wanted the pain.

“You’re getting really good with the crop, My. I think you should get a cane as well.”

“No.” His answer was firm. This could not be allowed to escalate beyond the existing nightmare.

“How’s Colin?”

Colin. That was a sore topic, not that Sherlock had any idea. Colin had got married and his wife hadn’t been keen on his mysterious late-night outings. The offer of more money didn’t change things. He hadn’t been beaten in months, and it was, frankly, driving him insane. Rumour had it there were ‘professionals’ in London, and he was seriously considering employing one. It was difficult for him to travel to the city, but perhaps with the right incentive, they would travel to Cambridge.

“Fine,” he replied, as breezily as he could manage.

“Liar. I haven’t seen you go to the stables once since you’ve been here.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“I can do it for you, you know. You can show me how.”

He wavered for a fraction of a second. Perhaps… “No. Absolutely not. End of discussion.” He changed the subject before he could change his own mind. “How’s school going? Have you found anyone to ‘experiment’ with? Or on?” He desperately wanted him to have a normal sex life. He couldn’t allow Sherlock to become as dependent on their relationship as he had.

Sherlock gave a small huff. “A few boys, yes. Kissing. Some hand jobs. Not much more.”

“I should get you some condoms while I’m home.”

Sherlock gave him a wry smile. “You have more faith in my abilities than I do.”

“As long as you don’t try and deduce them, I’m sure you’ll have no problem getting anything you want. I have to warn you though, they can get awfully clingy.” He thought about his experiences with Arthur, and shuddered.

“They’re boring, though.”

“The hand jobs?”

“No, the boys. They’re not like us, My. I don’t think they’d understand the pain thing even if I told them. Besides, they’re imbeciles.”

Mycroft shrugged. “You’ll find that a lot, I’m afraid. Enjoy it for what it is.”

“Pleasure, not intellectual companionship?”

“Yes.”

“You fulfil both.”

Mycroft fought the urge to panic, not sure how to interpret the remark. He looked over, only to see Sherlock peering at him intently, gauging his reaction.

“I’m not having this discussion, Sherlock. Drop it.”

Sherlock pouted but fell silent. It wasn’t long before he wanted another round with the crop. Mycroft thought it might be the death of him.

* * *

His final term at Cambridge brought him in contact with Jonathan, who wouldn’t leave him alone until Mycroft finally agreed to go out to dinner. When Mycroft saw the same soppy look on Jonathan’s face as he’d seen on Arthur’s, it was all he could do not to bolt from the restaurant. He wasn’t about to repeat the same mistake twice.

* * *

Mycroft escaped to Edinburgh for the weekend of Sherlock’s sixteenth birthday. It fell during the school term, but he didn’t trust Sherlock not to show up in London unexpectedly. He didn’t need that sort of stress.

He’d started his job with the government the previous year and taken a flat in Hammersmith. Now that he had a proper job, he couldn’t take the long holiday breaks he - and Sherlock - had taken for granted, and Sherlock had begged to spend the extra week of each holiday with him in London. Every time, he’d agreed. Sherlock took up residence on the sofa. During the days, he explored London. Each night, at Sherlock’s insistence, they explored Sherlock’s tolerance for pain.

Every time his brother departed, the sense of guilt - and loss - was stronger than before, but he gladly paid the emotional toll in exchange for the time with his brother.

But he couldn’t face the idea of seeing Sherlock on his sixteenth birthday - the ‘Age of Consent’ for the one person he truly loved and could never have. He knew that for Sherlock, their relationship was about pain and the pleasure he got from it, not about love; that only made the idea of a meeting even more difficult.

He’d sent a present and his best wishes, and silently thanked the gods that he wasn’t seeing him in person. The present, a first edition of _Chimie organique fondée sur la synthèse_ by Marcellin Berthelot, would allow Sherlock to indulge in both his French and his organic chemistry. It was a rare book; a good, thoughtful gift; an adequate apology for his absence.

He took the late morning train from London and checked in to the hotel, hoping to distract himself with a weekend of boring paperwork, but a view of Edinburgh Castle invited window-gazing and introspection, not work. He’d already been there an hour, and his papers lay untouched on the desk. He glanced at them half-heartedly. Hundreds of miles separated him from Sherlock at the moment, and the knowledge gave him as much relief as it did sadness. This was easier.

He gave up on the paperwork, threw on his coat and a scarf, and went out for a walk. He ended up - if you can call intentionally walking up a very steep hill ‘ending up’ somewhere - at Edinburgh Castle. A light frost still covered the shaded portions of the ground even though it was the early afternoon, and he’d almost slipped twice on the old streets. Now he was frozen. _Why on earth am I doing this?_

The old stone buildings on the castle grounds weren’t a good place to escape the cold, and the open expanses between them were even worse. He curled his aching fingers into tight fists to warm them.

Ah. That was it.

The colder he was, the more he could focus on _that_ , and the less he’d think about Sherlock.

Right.

Well, that had been a self-defeating revelation. Once again, everything else - even the bitter cold - turned into background noise, and _all_ he could think about was Sherlock. He wandered through the castle grounds and took in the sweeping vistas of the city. Since it seemed impossible to escape his thoughts, he might as well enjoy the view.

When his hands hurt so badly that he could stand it no longer, he went into the small tea-room to warm up. He curled his hands around the hot mug and took a perverse pleasure in the throbbing pain as the blood flow returned to his fingers. It proved he could exercise a certain control over his body, even if his mind was a lost cause.

He spent the afternoon wandering in a sort of haze, distracting himself with the castle exhibits and the novel architecture of the buildings. By the time he’d finished, a blue dusk had set in, and he indulged in a relatively warm taxi ride back to the hotel. He’d get some work done tonight and take the train back to London tomorrow afternoon.

A few hundred miles could provide him with a physical separation from Sherlock, but apparently no distance was enough for his thoughts. Still, by Monday, Sherlock would be back in his classrooms and the danger of an unexpected visit at the flat would have passed.

He was considering supper as he opened the door to his hotel room and switched on the lights. Sherlock sat at the desk, spinning slowly in the chair with a smirk on his face.

“Hello, Mycroft.”

“Sherlock.” It wasn’t a question. There never should have been a question, really; he should have seen this coming. He wasn’t sure why he thought leaving London would prevent Sherlock from finding him. The sinking feeling in his stomach clashed horribly with the joy he felt at seeing him. _God, I missed you._ His brother’s hair was longer than the last time he’d seen him, and loose dark curls framed his face. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at school.” He managed to keep his voice calm, which was more than he felt.

Sherlock gave him a withering look. “Give me a little credit.”

“I’ll give you more than a little. How’d you find me? I didn’t tell anyone I was coming here.”

“I went to your flat and realised you weren’t there, so I reported your credit card as stolen and asked them to give me the details of the most recent charges. That gave me the train ticket to Edinburgh and the name of the hotel. The lovely man at the desk let me into your room when I explained that I was your brother. You’ll probably want to pay for anything else with your other card, though; I don’t think they’ll let you use that one again.” He grinned, justifiably pleased with himself.

Mycroft sighed. He’d be more upset about it if it wasn’t so ingenious. “Nicely done, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s tone sobered. “Why’d you run, My? Was the idea of spending the weekend with me really that bad?”

He looked away. “You know that’s not it.”

“Are you upset?” he asked, and it was almost child-like. For as calculating as Sherlock could be at times, he was startlingly innocent at others.

“Not with you, no.” He looked Sherlock in the eye and forced a smile. “It’s good to see you, Sherlock; I missed you. I don’t get to see you often enough anymore. Did you like the book I sent?”

Sherlock smiled. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

He needed to be around other people; make small talk. This was too much to handle at the moment. “I was just about to go for supper. We could make it somewhere nice - for your birthday.”

Dinner was a leisurely three-hour affair: safe, with discussions of school and work, and no mention of anything emotional. It was what he needed. By the time they were back at the room, things were relaxed and easy between them.

“I brought the crop, Mycroft.” Sherlock retrieved it from behind the desk.

So much for relaxed and unemotional.

He kept the strain out of his voice as he replied, “You broke into the flat. Please tell me you didn’t do too much damage.”

“’Broke in’ is a little strong, Mycroft,” he replied with a chuckle. “I picked the locks. You know I’m good at it; I didn’t leave a mark.”

Mycroft glanced around for a bag and saw only his leather school satchel - bulging, probably with a change of clothes, but far too small for the crop. He chased the implications of the clothes - an overnight stay - from his mind. He couldn’t deal with that right now. “Where did you put the crop during your trip up here?”

Sherlock flashed him a wicked grin. “I carried it. I got the most _wonderful_ reactions. I shoved it inside my coat when I got here; I thought I’d come off as a high-class rent boy if I kept it out.”

Mycroft imagined the scene: a gorgeous young man striding purposefully through King’s Cross station with a riding crop in his hand, daring anyone to question him. He smiled - only Sherlock would have the nerve, and be able to pull it off.

Sherlock’s smile faded a little and he fixed Mycroft with an intent stare. “What do _you_ do, now that you don’t have Colin?” he asked quietly, glancing down at the crop.

Mycroft froze. “No, Sherlock. We’re not doing that.”

“Give me one good reason why not.”

Mycroft desperately wanted one - desperately tried to think of one - but nothing came to mind. He wanted the pain so much he could taste it. But he wasn’t sure he could take it, not coming from Sherlock.

His mind flashed on the obscene acts he’d wanted to perform with Colin after their sessions; the pain of the beatings always left him achingly hard and desperate for release, but the idea of being face-to-face with Sherlock in that state both terrified and horrified him. His attraction to his brother was normally manageable when he beat him, but he wasn’t sure that would be the case if the situation were reversed.

“Because I said so.” It wasn’t even a reason, let alone a good one. Sherlock would call him on it, but he couldn’t be honest.

“I don’t see why this is any different,” Sherlock replied with a nonchalant air. “You already get off on beating me.”

Mycroft’s heart nearly stopped. The statement was true, of course, no matter how much he loathed himself for feeling that way. But they’d agreed not to discuss it.

“We’re _brothers_ , Sherlock,” he pleaded. “Surely you understand what that means by now.”

“We’re not _like_ everyone else, My. Why should it matter what we do? You need the pain as much as I do. How long has it been?”

“That’s not the point,” Mycroft replied. Then he mumbled, “Almost two years.”

“I don’t see why you deny yourself what you clearly need. From what I can tell, you don’t have any outlet at all. You don’t even get yourself off anymore after beating me. Let me do this for you. I want to.”

Mycroft grabbed the edge of the desk for support as his legs threatened to give out.

“You’re just proving my point,” Sherlock added dispassionately, noting his reaction.

Mycroft breathed hard through his nose and tried to focus, but his mind echoed with the sense memories of the pain he’d missed so much. He shut his eyes tightly against the temptation, but it didn’t help.

“Let me,” Sherlock pushed. “Please.”

_God._

“Why, Sherlock?”

“Because you need it, that’s why.”

He knew Sherlock didn’t feel the same way about their relationship, but what if his brother wanted to make this a regular thing? _Killing me with kindness._

“Don’t worry, I won’t force myself on you,” Sherlock added, with a levity that Mycroft didn’t remotely share.

That hit a little too close to home. “That’s not funny.”

Sherlock just raised his eyebrows in rebuttal.

Mycroft steeled his nerves. Sherlock was right of course. He did need it; craved it, in fact.

“Let me do it for my birthday, then. Just this once.”

He wanted it so much. He took a deep breath and exhaled. “Once.” _What am I doing?_   “Just once.” Unable to meet Sherlock’s eyes, he bent over the bed. “Start out slowly, stop when I say, all right?” he said, hesitantly.

Sherlock responded with a soft tease of a strike. A delicious, horrible, wonderful tease.

“Harder.”

A soft sting this time, through the fine wool of his suit trousers.

“Harder.”

Sherlock took him at his word and started laying into him with more brutal strokes.

The pain and pleasure made his nerves sing. It had been so long, and the sensations flooded his brain with the neurochemicals that made it so addictive, but his clothes were deadening the blows.

“Harder, please,” he begged. “I can take it.” He’d already crossed his own line: there was no point in denying himself now.

Sherlock wielded the crop inexpertly, but well enough to give him what he needed. The pain sliced through his suit and painted sharp lines across his skin. _Yes._

He couldn’t stop squirming as the blows landed, and the motion pressed his erection against the bed, adding an overt pleasure he didn’t want. Pain. Just the pain. He tried to block out the chant of ‘ _Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock’_ in his mind as the crop made contact. It was as if pain and pleasure and want and guilt were being injected directly into his veins with a syringe, but the mixture in the tube was blood-red and felt more like love than any of those things. Tears started to prick at his eyes, but not from the pain. He needed the pain - wanted it… and then it dawned on him.

 _Oh, God. What have I done?_ ‘Sherlock’ and ‘love’ and ‘pain’ were now synonymous. Two were bad enough; all three might kill him. He couldn’t let his all-consuming love for Sherlock merge with his need for pain. Ever.

“Stop,” he cried out. “Please,” and it came out more panic-stricken than he’d intended.

Sherlock ceased immediately and rushed to the bed. “I’m sorry, My. What’s wrong?” He sat on the bed and leaned over him in a sort of hug.

Mycroft turned his face away so Sherlock wouldn’t be able to see the emotion there, and he bit down on his lip, trying to get himself under control.

“Just… can’t,” he replied, his voice thick with tears.

Sherlock draped himself on top of Mycroft and held him tightly, whispering, “I’m sorry, My. God, I’m so sorry.” He sounded confused, like he wasn’t sure where it had all gone sideways, just knowing that it had and that it was probably his fault.

Mycroft reached out and grabbed one of his brother’s hands and clasped it tightly. “Don’t,” he said, still unable to look at him. “I’m sorry; it’s my fault. I just can’t. It’s… complicated.”

Sherlock finally made the one deduction that had been staring him in the face for years - the one he’d always missed. “This is killing you, isn’t it - how you feel about us?”

Mycroft nodded against the duvet.

Sherlock held him tighter. “I do love you, My; I always have. It seemed like you didn’t want me to love you back, so I never told you. I thought I could do this for you instead.”

At that, Mycroft completely fell apart and curled into the foetal position with his forehead in his hands, sobbing uncontrollably.

Sherlock wrapped around him and murmured into his ear, “I’m sorry, My; I should have told you. I just… well, my feelings always seemed normal to me; I don’t see why they’re so wrong. I’m sorry I did this to you. I’m so sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything, Sherlock; I didn’t want you to have to deal with my feelings. I want you to have a normal life: go to university, have boyfriends, annoy the hell out of people.” The last one almost made him smile. “I’ll get over this. I can move past it.” He wasn’t honestly sure he could, but he’d try. Perhaps he could, now that this was out in the open. But although it killed him to admit it, he knew he couldn’t go on beating Sherlock, no matter how much either of them wanted it. “I can’t do this anymore, Sherlock, with the crop - not for either of us. I’ll go mad. I’m sorry. You’ll manage, with your deductions, or you’ll find somebody else, but it’s tearing me up.” He felt Sherlock nod against his back.

“It’s okay, My.”

The three words felt like an absolution.

* * *

Mycroft threw himself into his work completely, and Sherlock stopped insisting that he be allowed to stay in London for the holidays. Their time together was conducted solely on the neutral territory of the manor. As much as Mycroft hated Sherlock’s enforced absence, it was easier to bear, and the open wound of his feelings eventually healed into a scar that merely ached with a dull throb. Constantly.

He never spoke with Sherlock about it again. Sherlock seemed to be able to shut off his sexual attraction to Mycroft and interact with him on a completely normal level. Whatever ‘normal’ was. Civil. Loving. Bearing no resentment against Mycroft for what Mycroft had felt. It was both an immense relief and immensely heart-breaking.

He was grateful for Sherlock’s ability to distance himself. He’d gone off to university, terrorised the deans, destroyed labs, and had a series of sexual encounters. Normal ones. Well, as normal as they could be considering he insisted on deducing his lovers afterwards. He’d done all the ‘normal’ things Mycroft wanted and expected him to do, and that made the misery worth it.

Mycroft’s work thrived; he had nothing else left. Which was why, when Jonathan came back into his life and pestered him for a relationship, he blindly threw himself into that instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brings the timeline back to Mycroft's relationship with Jonathan. The next chapter will continue with Mycroft moving into Sherlock's flat (from the end of Chapter 16). There shall be far more sex in that part of the plot. :)  
> My thanks, again, to those of you who have stuck with me through the long periods between updates.


	21. London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's new living arrangements result in some interesting discussions.

After his fight with Jonathan, Mycroft fled to Sherlock’s flat without thinking. It was instinctive after a traumatic incident: seek comfort from the people you trust. People you love. Sherlock.

He lay on the bed that first night, with Sherlock sprawled out on his stomach next to him, trying to make sense of it all. The past year of his life had been a huge mistake - he could see that now. His relationship with Jonathan had been as ill-fated as his brief fling with Arthur, except this time he’d been the lovesick fool. Looking back on it, he couldn’t really remember a point where he’d been truly happy. He’d been happy about _having_ a relationship, not the relationship itself.

Sherlock’s fingers warmed his skin through the cotton of his pyjamas. He found it both comforting and a little upsetting. Six years on from the incident in Edinburgh and he still couldn’t put his feelings for Sherlock behind him, although God knows he’d tried. Sherlock had done exactly what Mycroft had wanted - put the non-platonic part of their relationship in a box and stored it away. Perhaps burned it. Mycroft wasn’t sure. After all, his brother was sleeping peacefully next to him, sprawled across him like it was the most natural thing in the world - as if nothing had ever happened between them. It was for the best, of course. If Sherlock hadn’t compartmentalised things this well, he doubted they’d have been on such pleasant terms for the past six years.

Mycroft was profoundly grateful for his brother’s presence. He covered Sherlock’s hand with his own, let the tension ease out of his body, and slept.

* * *

When he saw Sherlock lying next to him the following morning, he had half a second of pure happiness before he remembered what had brought him there. Then the pain and ugliness of the situation came flooding back.

He let Sherlock guide him through the day; he was honestly too exhausted to do anything else. The shock and grief - could you grieve something you were glad to be done with? - robbed him of the energy and drive he usually took for granted. He felt pathetic; he was more capable than this. His situation was clear: sever ties with Jonathan and move on with his life. So why did he feel so utterly unable to function?

Being around Sherlock calmed him. It was pleasant to spend time with his brother again; they hadn’t really been alone together - not without Mycroft feeling self-conscious and guilt-ridden - in years. A part of his soul still ached every time he looked at him, or even thought about him, but it had been like that for ages and he’d learnt to accept it. Having Sherlock help him at the moment was a huge comfort, even though he was disgusted and mortified by his own inability to cope with the situation.

He resigned himself to taking orders from his brother for a while, or perhaps just for the day. The blackness would pass; it had to.

* * *

When Mycroft had shown up at his door the previous evening, instinct had told Sherlock what to do. Protect. Comfort. Soothe. But as soon as his brother’s immediate safety seemed assured, his mind shot off in two additional directions: make sure Jonathan suffered as much as possible without exposing Mycroft to undue risk, and figure out how to deal with Mycroft’s reappearance in his life.

The answer to the second one seemed clear: make sure Mycroft didn’t leave again. Not in the ‘I’m going to lock him in the flat and never let him out’ sense, but emotionally.

As a teenager, he’d never realised just how much guilt and conflict he’d caused Mycroft. When his brother had almost melted down in Edinburgh, it finally jolted him out of his self-absorbed world, and he realised he had to let him go. It was the right thing to do, but it nearly killed him; it felt like he’d lost part of himself. Every time he saw Mycroft, he’d been forced to pretend: that he was enjoying university, that he was happy and functioning without him, that he was fine with Mycroft’s relationship with that moronic, abusive bastard. The pretence had been so hard, but it was worth it to see Mycroft happy again. But now, Jonathan had brought Mycroft’s world crashing down.

His brother was here seeking comfort and help. The last thing he needed was a revelation from Sherlock that was likely to cause even more turmoil.

So that was it, then. Be there to support him, but make damned sure he didn’t run away again. He didn’t think he could take it twice.

* * *

Sherlock stopped preparing the sandwiches and looked at his brother.

“What do you want _,_ Mycroft?”

“Sorry?”

“Out of life. You don’t seem to enjoy your job. God knows Mummy doesn’t care what we do, so you might as well do something you enjoy. So what do you want?”

Mycroft laughed half-heartedly and said, “To get out of London; it’s driving me mad. I don’t really care what I do - I despise my job; it takes up my every waking hour. And the weather is killing me. I know England isn’t the sunniest place on Earth, but there have to be better alternatives.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Sherlock said as he handed him a cheese and Marmite sandwich.

“Don’t be absurd, Sherlock. I’m not actually leaving London.”

“No, you’re not,” he replied, adding a dramatic pause. “We are.”

When Mycroft had mentioned finding a new flat close by, asking him to move in was only logical. When his brother talked about leaving London, it seemed silly not to push the idea. Running off somewhere sunny with Mycroft sounded perfectly delightful.

“You’re mad. You might not have any ties here, but I do.”

“Which ties, exactly?”

“Well, my job, for one.”

“The job that you just admitted is making you miserable. That job?”

“It’s still my job. I’ve put a lot of effort into getting where I am.”

“I never said you didn’t, but what’s the point if you’re not happy? It’s not like you have to work.”

It was true. Their father had left them more than enough money to live on; more than they knew what to do with. Mostly, it just sat around in banks, earning interest. Mycroft would never be ‘the idle rich’ - he was far too hard-working and compulsive for that - but Sherlock allowed a little of it to flow his way. His ‘contract work’ at Barts was barely more than access to their laboratories, which he used for his own personal projects. Mycroft knew he didn’t have a job, but they were both aware he would never thrive in a traditional work environment, so there was no point in making it an issue.

“Whether or not I have to is beside the point; I enjoy having a purpose. Anyway, I can’t move; my part of the government happens to be in London. I doubt they’d be inclined to relocate.”

“So you plan on being miserable indefinitely?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Sherlock knew he was pushing too hard. The object of the exercise was to convince Mycroft to stay, not to drive him away again.

Mycroft gave him a pained look, but before he could say anything, Sherlock stopped him.

“Look, I’m sorry. You’ve just been through something awful, and I’m not trying to make you crazy, but by your own admission you need a break from London and your job. We should at least go on holiday somewhere. Somewhere sunny.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows a little. “We?”

“Of course, ‘we’.” But then he thought back on their experience at Edinburgh and realised his presence might not be a relaxing element. “Unless you’d rather go alone.”

“I… I can’t deal with planning anything at the moment. Just let me get through the next few days, all right? Some time away would be nice though, and of course I’d like you to be there.” Mycroft gave him a weak smile. “Just don’t buy us a house in Spain or something without asking me first.”

Sherlock nodded and let the implications of Mycroft’s seemingly offhand remark sink in: Mycroft might consider moving at some point, possibly with him. It was more than he’d hoped.

* * *

“Where should I put my things?”

“Oh, right. You can have the bottom two drawers and whatever space you need in the wardrobe. Just pile what’s in there on the floor. I’ll figure it out.”

“I really don’t want to be a bother.”

“You’re not. If it really worries you, we can get a dresser for your bedroom.”

“I haven’t said I’m moving in, Sherlock. I can get my own flat.”

“You haven’t said you’re not, and I want you to stay. At least consider it.”

Mycroft nodded. “All right. I’ll be in the bedroom if you need anything.”

Sherlock couldn’t stop thinking about the crop Mycroft had asked him to retrieve. Did he still use it? Could he be persuaded to use it on him? He’d practically agreed to live in the same house; surely that had to mean _some_ sort of relationship had been restored, but what exactly?

He stood in the doorway to his bedroom and watched as Mycroft unpacked the few belongings Sherlock had retrieved from his flat. The crop lay nestled between a stack of dress shirts.

Mycroft picked it up with distaste. “Please dispose of this, if you’d be so kind.”

“What?” he asked, completely puzzled. “You had me bring it for you.”

“So no one else would see it. Please, just get rid of it.”

Sherlock snatched it from him and stormed out, hurrying to the living room where he opened the window and flung it, as hard as he could, into the road below. It bounced off the window of a passing taxi and then splintered under the tyres of the next car that passed. He silently fumed. He’d hoped that Mycroft would want to continue what they’d done all those years ago. He hadn’t expected it anytime soon, but this seemed to annihilate any chance of it.

“It’s not what you think.”

He jumped; he hadn’t heard Mycroft walk in.

“And you could have just got rid of it in the bin, you know.”

“I was upset,” Sherlock replied, without turning to face him.

“It wasn’t ours. I bought it with Jonathan. It wasn’t… things… never mind.” It sounded like he might start crying. “I just needed it to be gone.”

“It’s pretty definitively gone. Six cars have run over it so far. The taxi driver never stopped so I don’t think he minded that it hit his windshield.” His mind raced; he’d clearly missed something huge, and he had a sudden, awful realisation of what it was. Mycroft had trusted someone else with his pain, and it had not gone well. He wanted to kill Jonathan all over again.

“What did you do with it?” Mycroft asked him, quietly.

Sherlock didn’t need to ask what he meant. “It’s in my wardrobe, behind my suits. I took it with me when I left Edinburgh. I hope you don’t mind that I kept it.” He turned around and saw Mycroft’s face contorted - his eyes squeezed shut and tears rolling down his cheeks. He rushed over and held him tightly. “I’m so sorry. I’ll get rid of it if you want me to. I kept it because it was… something that was you. Yours… ours. I didn’t want to lose that. But now you’re here.” He sounded desperate. “Don’t leave, My. Please don’t leave.”

Mycroft rested his head on his brother’s shoulder and cried harder.

Then Sherlock realised: asking Mycroft to stay - to move in - would trigger the same stress and anxiety that he’d caused his brother before.

“Oh, God,” he muttered. “I’m sorry. Let’s sit down.”

Mycroft allowed himself to be led to the sofa, and Sherlock handed him a box of tissues.

“I didn’t think. I can be so stupid sometimes.”

Mycroft gave a small, incredulous huff through his sniffles.

“I do want you to stay, but not if…” he paused, unsure of how to put it tactfully. ‘Not if the guilt is going to drive you insane’ didn’t seem appropriate, even if it was true. “… not if it’s going to make things difficult for you. I don’t want to hurt you like that.”

Mycroft twisted out of his grasp and stormed towards the kitchen.

He’d said something wrong, but damned if he knew what it was.

“My?” He rose from the sofa and hesitantly followed his brother.

Mycroft rounded on him, his puffy eyes full of anger. “You already did - for six years! How could you forget about everything that happened between us? You just pretended everything was normal and kept going.”

Tears pricked the corners of Sherlock’s eyes. “You… you told me to. You said you wanted me to have a normal life and you’d get past your feelings. I never forgot it; it never changed how I felt. I just did what you asked. And then you seemed so excited about Jonathan; I thought you’d moved on, and I sort of gave up hoping, but now I don’t know what to think.”

When Sherlock gathered the nerve to look at him again, all the anger had drained from Mycroft’s face.

“Hoping?”

“Hoping you’d get over your guilt and change your mind about wanting to be with me.” He paused, aware of how self-centred he sounded. He couldn’t stop a tiny smile from tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Obviously.”

Sherlock’s intentionally bratty behaviour defused the situation a little, just as he’d hoped it would.

“I’ve always wanted to be with you, Sherlock. I just wanted you to have a normal life.”

“I did, and I wasn’t particularly fond of it; it got boring. You’ve never bored me.”

“It’s not that straightforward. This…” Mycroft gestured between them, “it’s not even legal.”

“Oh, come on. It’s not like they prosecute it; we’re both consenting adults. The police have actual crime on their hands, you know.”

Mycroft still held back, with a look of pain on his face that nearly ripped Sherlock in two.

“I’ve hated how I’ve felt for so long… I don’t know if I can.”

Sherlock edged closer - just a step, to see if Mycroft would retreat. It looked for a second as if he would. Sherlock’s mind raced. He could deduce his way through this: feelings weren’t logical, but now he knew enough about Mycroft’s emotions to attempt to convince him. He had to make it work - he couldn’t let Mycroft slip through his fingers. Not again.

He reached out and laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. Mycroft flinched. “Your problem with this doesn’t stem from the legality; you think you’re going to lead me down the same guilt-filled path you’ve taken. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I don’t have much of a problem with guilt, and I have a very generous definition of morality. You never did anything wrong. Showing me how to use pain preserved my sanity, and you never laid a hand on me sexually, no matter how much I practically begged you to. You’re blameless here, Mycroft. I’m sorry I put you through all those years of hell without realising it. Now that I know you still feel the same way, I’d at least like to try and make things work.”

Mycroft didn’t respond. Well, that was a start; at least he wasn’t actively saying ‘no’. Sherlock wanted to kiss him - press him against the counter and take his breath from his lungs and make him realise that they were meant to be together - but this had to be on Mycroft’s terms, or it would never work. “Please, My. I love you. I need you.” He never stooped to begging, but this - this one thing - was worth it. Mycroft’s love meant more to him than anything.

The look of anguish on Mycroft’s face softened. “I love you too, Sherlock. And you’re right - I’d at least like to try; I don’t think I could bear to lose you again.”

Mycroft leaned forward and their lips met in a soft, sweet kiss. It was gentle and slow, with a bone-weary exhaustion that reflected the long, brutal journey that had taken their entire lives thus far, and it was a silent promise between them: to never separate again.


	22. Not Spain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're finally on the same page.

Mycroft didn't push their kiss beyond anything that would have been acceptable in polite company, and Sherlock was, for the most part, content to let it stay that way. But he couldn't deny that a glimmer of lust warred with his desire to respect his brother's boundaries. Besides, he didn't think polite company would approve anyway.

When Mycroft pulled away, Sherlock pulled him back closer and nestled his face in the crook of Mycroft's neck. "I missed you," he murmured, as he inhaled the faint scent of Mycroft's soap and warm skin. "It's been hell without you."

"It has." Mycroft pressed his face against Sherlock's soft curls and let out a tiny moan at the indulgence.

Sherlock tugged at Mycroft's shirt collar, glad he wasn't wearing anything more formal, and placed tiny kisses along his neck. It was more reverent than sexual. He'd yearned to do this for so long; touch his brother without feeling him flinch away or see pain and guilt in his eyes. His skin was so soft and yielding beneath his lips, and he felt as if he could stay there for years, kissing and tasting the hollow above his clavicle.

He pulled back and looked into Mycroft's eyes. He was almost startled to see the red puffiness that surrounded them, and he remembered that Mycroft had been utterly distraught only moments ago. Time was moving on a variable scale.

Mycroft grasped Sherlock's hand lightly, rubbing his thumb across the knuckles. "I don't know what to do, Sherlock."

He could barely hear his brother's strained voice.

"I think the incident with Jonathan has left me a bit broken."

Sherlock silenced him with another gentle kiss. "Then let me take care of you."

* * *

"What about Spain?"

"I'm not moving. Besides, I'd burn to a crisp," Mycroft replied, looking up from his dinner.

"What about a holiday?"

"I'd rather not increase the probability that I'll die of skin cancer."

"Oh, don't be so dramatic. It'd just be a week."

"I can't leave the country for that long. It's going to be difficult enough explaining this absence."

Sherlock's eyes roamed across the roast chicken and risotto supper Mycroft had prepared. He was a surprisingly good cook.

"What if you didn't leave the country? What if you could be back here in a few hours on the train?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "A beach holiday. Here? Surely you're aware of how ridiculous that sounds."

"You said you didn't want to burn; what better place than an English beach?"

"Very funny."

"No, really. We've never been to Devon. It's supposed to be nice down there - 'The English Riviera', they call it."

Mycroft nearly choked on his wine.

"'The English Riviera'? Surely that's a bit disingenuous."

"Statistically, it's sunnier than London, and it does have proper beaches - the Thames at low tide doesn't count."

"Ugh." Mycroft wrinkled his nose in distaste. "I never claimed it did."

"You need a change of scenery for a while; even a long weekend would do you good. Monday's a bank holiday; let me see what I can find."

"Don't be ridiculous. Everything will be booked."

"That wasn't a 'no'."

Mycroft let out a long breath. "All right. If you can find something for the weekend, I'll go. You've already told them I'll be out for the rest of the week; I might as well take advantage of it."

"Fantastic." He shovelled another forkful of risotto into his mouth. With his mouth still full he said, "If I had access to food like this all the time, I'd eat more often."

Mycroft smiled at the compliment. "It certainly wouldn't hurt you. I'd say you could do the shopping and I'd cook, but I'm not sure I trust you to even remember the milk."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in reply, but it was true. "You'll just have to teach me better habits then." The carelessly uttered sentence ignited a fuse of word associations in his brain. Teach. Discipline. Pain. Mycroft. Pain. Mycroft. Pain. Mycroft. The last two repeated like a mantra.

He caught his breath and tried to cover his reaction, but Mycroft was too quick and saw everything. His brother raised one eyebrow and waited for Sherlock to speak.

He hadn't meant it like that. Had he? God. Yes, he wanted it, but Mycroft didn't need that sort of mental complication at the moment. "Sorry, that came out wrong. It honestly wasn't what I meant." His gaze wandered across the table, lingering on anything but Mycroft's face.

"Sherlock."

He stopped fidgeting and somehow found the nerve to look his brother in the eye.

Neither of them spoke.

Neither of them knew what to say.

Seconds ticked by, feeling like longer.

Finally, Mycroft spoke. "The crop: you kept it all these years. Did you ever use it?"

"Of course not. It's yours. Ours. Look, I don't think it's fair to you… I didn't mean for this to come up. You need time."

"Do I?" His voice was quiet, but his eyes glimmered with a trace of excitement.

The potential in those words made him want to drop to his knees and beg for the sting of the crop across his arse.

The look on his face must have been all the answer Mycroft needed, because he got up and walked over to him. He towered above Sherlock, who was still in his chair. Cupping Sherlock's cheek in his hand, he tilted his face upward.

Sherlock mentally catalogued both the warmth of his hand and his increased respiration. Cross-referenced Mycroft's perceived skin temperature with the flush of his own cheeks. Filled his head with statistics while he waited for Mycroft to speak. It felt like years. It had been years.

"Do you want this, Sherlock?"

He nodded.

"What are your boundaries?"

Sherlock thought about the different types: sexual, emotional, pain. The answer was the same in each instance. It was Mycroft, therefore there were no boundaries.

"The only boundaries we've ever had are the ones you've needed," he replied solemnly. Then, he tilted his head into Mycroft's cupped hand and slowly licked his palm, finishing it with a kiss. He looked up at his brother with a wicked smile.

Mycroft's breath caught and a small noise escaped his lips.

Sherlock remembered that sound: the sound of Mycroft's pent-up sexual frustration as he beat him. God, all those years when he'd wanted him to give in; to feel the weight of his brother suddenly pinning him to the bed instead of seeing him look away in shame. Finally.

He pulled away from Mycroft's hand and tilted his head back to lick the pad of Mycroft's finger, then he let it drag across the fullness of his lower lip. "You can have me any way you want." If that didn't make his consent clear, nothing would.

* * *

Fuck.

Mycroft rarely swore, even mentally. He considered it a linguistic crutch. But the word echoed in his head, both an exclamation and a practical imperative.

His fingertip rested on Sherlock's chin, still slightly damp from his brother's tongue. His groin throbbed, the sound of blood rushed in his ears, and the room had gone slightly wavy. He struggled to compose himself. He'd intended his question to be about the crop, but Sherlock clearly had other things in mind: a full-on seduction, by the looks of it.

The way his brother looked up at him through his eyelashes like that with his lips barely parted? Yes, that was definitely what this was. Not that he needed much convincing anymore. He'd been turning it over and over in his mind since their conversation earlier. Since their kiss. Pavlovian guilt had chased each desirous thought for so many years. Even now, he waited for it to catch up like a stuttering heartbeat. But for as much pain as his enforced distance had caused them both, it had been the right thing to do. Sherlock had absolved him, and now the guilt was gone.

And it had been replaced by an all-consuming desire.

He wanted this. Sherlock wanted this. Fuck society.

* * *

"Oh…"

Sherlock betrayed his surprise with one word as Mycroft pulled him to his feet. He'd long since settled in for the Siege for Mycroft's Affections, and his apparent sudden victory left him reeling.

His brother pushed him back gently against the counter and kissed him. Less gently.

Sherlock responded with a moan and pressed against him. The room felt too warm, and it was glorious. His hands explored the curves of Mycroft's shoulder-blades as his brother kissed his way along his jawline, then he offered the long expanse of his neck like a heathen sacrifice and Mycroft moaned.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted this," he murmured, as his mouth played across the hollows of Sherlock's throat.

"You'd be surprised." He moved one leg between Mycroft's and a gratifying tilt of his brother's hips gave him the friction he craved. The gesture ignited a spark at the base of his spine. His uneven breath ruffled Mycroft's light ginger hair, and he uttered, "Bedroom." Mycroft didn't need convincing.

Sherlock fell backwards onto his bed and pulled his brother on top of him.

Skin. Contact. More. Now.

He fumbled with buttons while Mycroft seemed content to push up his t-shirt and run his hands across the warm, taut planes of his stomach as he kissed him. Well, mostly content. He ground his hips sensuously against him, and Sherlock could barely concentrate on removing Mycroft's shirt. Why did he have to wear something with cuffs?

He finally pushed Mycroft to the side in frustration. "Come on, help me. I've waited entirely too long for this to be done in by buttons."

Mycroft quirked a half-smile and flicked the cuffs open, pulling his shirt off and tossing it on the floor. Sherlock pulled his own shirt over his head and unzipped his jeans, but lifting his hips to take them off pressed his body against Mycroft's again, and his brother pushed him back onto the bed by his shoulders.

"But… trousers," Sherlock moaned.

"Not yet. Desperation suits you." He kept him pinned in place as he dipped his head towards Sherlock's exposed chest and toyed at one of his nipples with his tongue. Teasing and delicate at first, then with a quick bite that had Sherlock crying out more in surprise than pain.

Sherlock grasped for Mycroft's trousers again, but his brother's waistband remained just out of reach, and those long, slender fingers were surprisingly strong against his shoulders. Being pinned like this thrilled him. It was so unexpected, coming from Mycroft. Exciting. He hadn't presumed Mycroft to be boring in bed: his fascination with pain precluded that. But he'd anticipated a cautious, gentle approach. This was neither. It was perfect. And it was driving him out of his skull with need.

One perfect hand left his shoulder and worked its way between them. Mycroft palmed Sherlock's erection, still trapped inside his pants, and stroked its length with just the right amount of force as he moved back up Sherlock's body and kissed him.

Determined to take what he could get, he pulled Mycroft down onto his chest, relishing the warmth of his brother's skin against his own. "I never thought you'd be such a tease," he murmured, nipping at Mycroft's ear.

"I never thought I'd have the pleasure. I want to make it last."

"When I said you could have me any way you wanted, it wasn't a one-time offer, you know. Hurt me, fuck me, let me suck you off. Just… something. Anything." It wasn't language he'd normally use, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

Mycroft responded with a low chuckle. "Which should it be then, pain or sex?"

* * *

Hurt me, fuck me, let me suck you off.

Oh, _God._

Sherlock's words echoed in his head like a filthy litany.

He climbed off the bed with his heart thudding in his chest and his legs weak with excitement.

Sherlock pushed himself up onto his elbows and watched with a hungry expression, running his tongue across his lower lip.

The sight made Mycroft's mouth water, and he had to drag his eyes away and focus his attention on retrieving the crop.

"The wardrobe, behind my suits."

As if he could forget.

He parted the clothes and saw it leaning in the corner, handle down. The state of it surprised him. He'd expected it to be dusty; the leather dry. But it looked like it had been conditioned and polished regularly over the years. He gave Sherlock a querying look.

His brother shrugged. "It was ours. I took care of it."

"Thank you." His voice came out strained - a mixture of tenderness and still-overwhelming lust.

He lifted it out of the wardrobe. He closed his eyes and smiled as he inhaled the rich scent of the leather. His anxiety about the implement's associations with Jonathan vanished. This was theirs, and theirs alone.

He opened his eyes to find Sherlock gazing intently up at him. He took a few moments to bask in it before he spoke. "Safeword?"

"I don't need one."

"You have no choice in the matter. Your safeword is 'safeword'; you're not invincible."

A quick intake of breath from Sherlock.

He'd said it out of practicality; concern. But his brother's reaction to his authoritative tone was distinctly sexual. Fascinating.

For all their experiments with pain, he'd never framed them in a context of dominance. If anything, he'd been the one who felt powerless against Sherlock. Was this something his brother wanted? Pinning him to the bed just now… that had been well-received, too.

"Get undressed and bend over the bed." His tone brooked no argument, and Sherlock gave none. Just harsh breaths and long, slender fingers fumbling with his trousers. Mycroft caught a glimpse of his cock, hard and wanting, before Sherlock bent over and presented his luscious arse.

Oh, God. Was it possible to die of a heart attack at this age?

He was beautiful and wanton, and when he rolled his hips against the bed, Mycroft thought he might keel over just from the sight of it.

Sherlock twisted his head back and caught him staring.

"Well?"

His voice had dropped to perilously deep levels, dripping with sex.

"Christ." It was the only word Mycroft could manage. He didn't know whether to beat him or fuck him senseless.

"Aren't you going to thrash me? I always wanted it on my bare skin. I waited."

He'd waited. All these years. Another tick mark in the 'consent' column, as if he needed more.

Trying desperately to keep his breathing under control, he stepped towards the bed. He willed his hands to stop trembling, then he gently ran the leather flap of the crop along his perineum, causing Sherlock to drop his head back onto the bed and moan. He continued by leaving a teasingly light trail between the cheeks of his arse. Sherlock pushed back, seeking some sort of firmer contact, and Mycroft drew the crop away.

"Behave."

A low, needy sound. Mycroft smiled: his pushy little brother got off on being ordered around. How ironic.

"Tell me when to give you more, and when to back off. I don't want you to come, though; not from this."

Sherlock nodded.

He made his first strokes gentle, but not hesitant. Flicks of the crop left red petals blooming on his pale skin. He was silently grateful he'd never given in to Sherlock's teenage pleadings for bare-arsed thrashings, because they would have broken him.

He increased his force slightly and Sherlock rolled his hips in gratitude. The movement travelled up his spine like a wave and Mycroft paused momentarily to absorb the sheer beauty of it.

"Harder."

He complied at first, but then he kept the intensity steady.

"Harder." Sherlock's voice was edged with frustration now.

Mycroft instead placed the strokes in three different locations on his buttocks. He made it random enough that Sherlock didn't know which of the three would be next. It was much harsher than increasing the intensity.

"Tell me when to stop."

The three lines started to burn an angry red, and although Sherlock's arousal didn't seem to diminish, he gripped the sheets so hard his knuckles were white. He took it for much longer than Mycroft expected. Eventually, he caved.

"Okay," he gasped. "Too much… slower."

"Do you want me to stop?"

He shook his head vigorously. "Just not… there. Can't."

Mycroft dropped the intensity way back and returned to cropping him elsewhere, carefully avoiding the three stripes that now practically glowed. Sherlock's harsh breathing returned to a series of low moans, and his hips once again shifted against the bed, seeking friction for his cock.

He realised, to his relief, that he got no thrill from administering the pain. It was just as he'd suspected all along: he derived his pleasure from watching Sherlock's arousal, and from the deep love and attraction he felt towards him.

And at this point, that attraction was almost unbearable. His erection strained against his trousers, and if he didn't do something soon, he was going to come in his pants like a schoolboy. He dropped the crop on the bed and fumbled with his zip. "Come here."

Sherlock turned onto his back, a little dazed and with a slight hiss as his tender buttocks hit the sheets.

As Mycroft stepped out of his clothes, he reached out and pulled Sherlock to his feet. He found Sherlock's mouth and met it with a desperate kiss, running his hands across his back and through his hair, drinking in the taste and smell and feel of him. Sherlock grabbed Mycroft's arse and pulled him closer. Their cocks rubbed together; the sensation sent a jolt of electricity through his body and his vision flashed white.

He pulled away from the kiss and put his fingers against Sherlock's lips. His brother seemed to read his mind and took them into his mouth, slicking them up, and then licked his palm with lavish, wet strokes. Mycroft groaned his approval and then worked his hand between them, grasping both of their cocks in his fist. Sherlock gave his own hand a brief lick and wrapped it over Mycroft's, forming a hot, slick tunnel.

The sensation - the wet slide of their cocks pressed together - nearly overwhelmed Mycroft, and he had to fight off an almost immediate orgasm. They ended up with one hand on each other's shoulder, their eyes locked as they gave themselves over to the intense feelings they'd harboured for so long.

Sherlock's pale blue-green eyes looked like the vast reaches of some far-off nebula. He'd never been able to see them this close. So beautiful.

Mycroft's mind was clearly elsewhere, so his body crashed headlong into orgasm without him. He cried out Sherlock's name as he came, closing his eyes and throwing his head back at the exquisite bliss. Sherlock batted his hand away and milked him through his orgasm.

Sherlock had observed the entire event with an expression of wonder, and it wasn't until Mycroft was clearly sated that he returned his hand to his own cock.

"No, let me. I want to make you come." Mycroft's voice lacked its usual crispness, but his full attention was on Sherlock once again.

Sherlock smiled and removed his hand, licking every trace of his brother's semen from his fingers as Mycroft stroked him. Watching him, Mycroft thought he might come all over again.

Sherlock was already close to orgasm, and it didn't take long before it ripped through his body. Then he slumped contentedly against Mycroft and mumbled 'love you' against the side of his neck.

Tears pricked at the corners of Mycroft's eyes and he held him close. "Love you too."


	23. Holiday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Sherlock escape from London for a weekend at the beach.

After their first, glorious sexual encounter, time had passed in a blur. Mycroft left the flat just once to get food, but other than that, they’d spent their days and nights in a haze of sex, pain, deliciously exhausted sleep, and hours of relaxed conversation. They had so much to catch up on after six years apart - longer than that really, if you counted all those times when he’d only seen Sherlock once or twice a year. Mycroft’s absence from work gave them the opportunity to learn each other - sexually and emotionally - and both of them understood what a rare gift that was.

Sherlock somehow managed to find a place to stay for the weekend. It was a Bed and Breakfast. Mycroft would have preferred a small, boutique hotel: private and discreet. This had the potential to be more like Fawlty Towers.

The last thing Mycroft wanted was a lot of contact with - well - anyone other than Sherlock, really. The idea of breakfast in a shared dining room seemed horrifying. No doubt it would be filled with loud tourists complaining about the dryness of the toast. Sherlock pointed out that they didn’t have to eat breakfast there, and that a few brusque interactions with the owner should be enough to forestall prying personal questions, however polite and well-meaning.

Mycroft somewhat grudgingly agreed. It would be a change of scenery, and they’d be together. He was more than happy to stay ensconced in the blissful privacy of the flat, but Sherlock tended to be easily bored. He didn’t want Sherlock getting bored with _him_.

* * *

The owner of the Bed and Breakfast was an older woman, far too inquisitive and almost aggressively cheerful. Mycroft disliked her at once.

“Two beds then, dear?”

“Of course.” He internally sighed. This wouldn’t have been an issue at a proper hotel. They were less _invasive_ of one’s privacy _._ More willing to accept the existence of gay relationships, if not incestuous ones.

“What brings you to Torquay?”

This was getting unacceptably chatty.

“A funeral.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and Mycroft saw him press his lips together to contain a smile.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, dear. Well, we’ve all got to die sometime.”

Mycroft just glared at her, and she shut up. She wrote down his information and gave them the key to the room.

“Up the stairs, second door on the left. It’s got a lovely view of the water.”

He gave her a tight smile, and they carried their small bags upstairs.

Sherlock smirked. “A funeral? Really? She’s going to expect us to leave here in black suits, not bathing suits.”

“I wouldn’t be caught dead in a bathing suit, possibly not even at the beach.” He gave Sherlock a conspiratorial look. “You have to admit though, it shut her right up.”

Sherlock nodded and eyed the beds suspiciously. “Help me shove these beds together. There’s no way we’ll both fit on one of these, and damned if I’m sleeping alone.”

That made two of them. Mycroft placed his bag on the floor and helped Sherlock turn the ancient single beds into one larger one - even if it was one with a dodgy bit in the middle. Perhaps they could move the pillows and sleep on an angle.

* * *

Dinner was acceptable. Not up to London standards, by any stretch, but tasty enough. French cuisine on the ‘English Riviera’ had a certain delicious irony to it. Sherlock jokingly suggested that perhaps on their next holiday they could try English cuisine on the French Riviera. They spent an entertaining ten minutes pondering exactly what food an ‘English restaurant’ would serve, and decided there was a reason they’d never seen one anywhere.

Back at the hotel, Sherlock knocked quietly on the wall between the rooms.

“Plaster. Not soundproof, but it could be worse. The rooms at school were awful.”

Mycroft found himself oddly jealous and looked away.

“It’s not the same,” Sherlock cut in. “They didn’t mean anything to me. I was bored and they were a form of entertainment. You’re different.”

Mycroft smiled at the sentiment. It was silly to be jealous. Besides, he’d told Sherlock to go off and have a normal life. “While you were there, did you ever do anything…” he wasn’t sure how to put it.

“Kinky?”

“Well, ‘submissive’ was the word I was searching for, but that works too.”

“No. They all suffered from a terrible lack of imagination, and I certainly wasn’t about to trust them. I never forgot what you told me about pain, and I decided submission fell into the same category.”

Sherlock already had his shirt off and was working on his trousers.

“Perhaps you should draw the curtains.”

“There’s no one to see. Besides, it would be educational; the people around here need their horizons broadened. Who knows? I might enjoy that sort of thing.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes in mock despair. Apparently Sherlock had a bit of an exhibitionist streak. “You’re full of surprises. Is there anything you don’t enjoy?”

“I don’t know. We’ll have to find out.”

Mycroft wondered what he’d done to get this lucky.

“I intend to. Get on your knees.”

Sherlock’s incandescent grin gave him all the consent he needed. They’d got the necessary safety discussions out of the way early on, and it was getting to the point where Mycroft could read him like a book anyway. If Sherlock had a problem, he’d speak up. His little brother had never been reticent about anything.

Sherlock dropped to his knees on the clean but thinning carpet. “Did you want my mouth, or did you have something else in mind?” He lowered his chest to the floor and wiggled his surprisingly lush arse in the air.

“God, you really are a tart, aren’t you?” Mycroft said fondly.

“Oh, come on. You know you love it.”

He did. Every second of it. He’d gone from a disastrous, sexually-dismal relationship, to what could only be described as utter bliss with the one person he loved - all in the past week. The speed and the thrill of it had been dizzying.

Sherlock’s sexual appetite had come as a bit of a surprise to them both. Having Mycroft as a partner had rekindled his enthusiasm for sex, and his unexpected interest in submission had opened doors neither of them had expected. Their mutual lack of experience in that area merely called for more experimentation. Neither of them was complaining.

Mycroft gazed at Sherlock’s upturned arse, and his mouth watered as he considered the tight, silky heat of it around his cock, but he restrained himself. “Not tonight; I don’t think you can be quiet enough. I think you need your mouth full.”

Sherlock looked up at him coyly. “You could always gag me.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows shot up. “I had no idea you were into that.” It sounded like a marvellous idea.

“Neither did I, but it hasn’t stopped us before. Besides, I think I might be. Come on, you know you want to fuck me.”

He gulped. Sherlock might be the death of him, but what a way to go. He looked at the clothes strewn in a heap on the floor: not many options unless he wanted to ruin one of his brother’s shirts. Unless…

“Get on the bed. Same position.”

He clambered onto it in a hurry, and Mycroft admired the sight of his toned body as he picked up Sherlock’s pants with a smile. Cotton boxers. Not ideal, but certainly adequate, and with an added hint of humiliation: the long, hot train trip down to Devon had left them with the mild tang of sweat. He wondered how his brother would feel about that. He strongly suspected he knew the answer.

He grabbed Sherlock’s hair and pulled his head back. Sherlock moaned with obvious enthusiasm.

“You sure about this?”

Sherlock nodded.

“The normal non-verbal safeword - grunt three times.”

“Yes, yes. I don’t know what you’re waiting for.”

Mycroft pulled his head back further, opening his mouth wider.

“Then be a good little slut and let me shove this in that greedy mouth of yours.”

Obscene language didn’t come naturally to Mycroft. He’d spent far too much of his life being genteel, never uttering the word ‘cock’ in polite company, let alone ‘slut’. When Sherlock had begged his brother to use it - and filthy language in general - he’d almost called safeword himself, but when he saw the effect it had on Sherlock, who writhed beneath him in obvious pleasure at the epithet, he started to think that perhaps he could make an exception.

He pushed the material into Sherlock’s mouth with his long fingers. Not too much of it - he suspected Sherlock could probably be quiet enough - this was more about exploring a new potential kink, and about the control and humiliation Sherlock already enjoyed.

The scene before him was absurd, though. It was as if Sherlock - naked and presenting his arse - had been caught in the act of consuming his own pants. Mycroft couldn’t help but laugh, just a little.

Sherlock frowned at him.

“Sorry. It just looks like you didn’t have enough for dinner. If you enjoy this, I’ll buy you a proper gag when we get back. I doubt they have that sort of a shop down here.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and said something muffled that sounded like ‘Just fuck me already.’”

Mycroft grasped his hair again and pulled it back with a quick tug. He pushed more of the material into his mouth. “I don’t think you understand. I’ll fuck you when _I’m_ good and ready. You don’t get a say in it.”

He grabbed some lube from their toiletry bag, along with a condom.

Sherlock shot him an incredulous look. Once they’d established they were both clean, they’d stopped using condoms.

“I’m not explaining semen stains on the sheets. We’re already pushing credulity with the funeral story; I think that would put the nail in the proverbial coffin.”

Mycroft took his time removing his clothes and placed them, neatly folded, on his bag. He made sure to take longer than was necessary. The wait would intensify the need for them both - not that it needed intensifying, but Sherlock had to learn some discipline.

Once naked, he rolled on the condom and lubed up two fingers. The first time he’d taken Sherlock’s arse, they’d gone achingly slowly to make sure he didn’t get hurt, but now that they were having sex so frequently, his brother rarely needed more than a healthy amount of lube for preparation.

As expected, his fingers slid right in. He added a third, eliciting a muffled groan of approval from Sherlock.

“Your arse is even more eager than usual. Perhaps it was worth almost missing our train this morning.” He’d woken up to Sherlock’s lips around his cock, teasing it to hardness. When his brother had begged to be fucked - well - who was Mycroft to refuse him? They’d lost track of time and torn through Paddington station, collapsing into their seats barely a minute before the train doors closed.

He pulled his fingers out and slicked up his erection.

“Beg for it, slut.” Saying it still jarred his sensibilities, but Sherlock rolled his hips in invitation and gave a muffled, desperate plea through the material. Mycroft spread his cheeks and rubbed one finger slowly around the edge of Sherlock’s hole before lining up his cock.

Sherlock thrust his hips back, trying to impale himself.

Mycroft pulled back - just enough to prevent it. “I don’t think so. If you don’t behave, I’ll use your mouth instead.” Sherlock enjoyed giving head, but not nearly as much as getting fucked. He stopped pushing back.

“There, that’s better.” He lined himself up again, pushing the head of his cock just inside Sherlock’s passage. It felt exquisite, but he resisted the urge to push in any further. He wanted to make his brother earn it.

Sherlock stayed stock still for the fifteen seconds Mycroft counted off in his head, but towards the end he heard a keening moan through the makeshift gag. Mycroft took pity on him - and gave in to his own urges - and claimed the rest of him in one solid stroke, burying himself to the hilt.

Sherlock threw his head back and ground his arse against Mycroft’s hips, desperate for even more penetration.

Mycroft realised, too late, that he’d forgotten to use a condom on Sherlock. He considered stopping to get one, but Sherlock was writhing against him, impaled, and - well - if Sherlock was into this humiliation thing, he would certainly indulge it.

“Don’t you dare come on the sheets,” he hissed. “If you do, you’ll be licking it up.”

He pulled almost all the way out and drove back in, hard.

The ecstatic sounds that came from behind the gag made him infinitely grateful they hadn’t tried this without one.

He let Sherlock set the pace, simply because it was fascinating to see what his brother enjoyed. He seemed insatiably submissive and fond of rough sex. Mycroft worried it would be too much, but it never seemed to be. He should have expected it, really, from the way Sherlock revelled in the intensity of being cropped. He craved sensation in all its forms.

No surprise then, when Sherlock responded to his hard, deep thrusts by pushing himself up onto his forearms to get more leverage. Sherlock’s desires were clear, and Mycroft held nothing back - he had to wipe his lube-slick hand on Sherlock’s back in order to get a better grip on his hip. The heat and friction felt exquisite, and each time he bottomed out, Sherlock’s arse pressed deliciously against his balls and thighs. He paused just long enough to wrap one arm around his brother’s chest, then pulled him up so Sherlock was in his lap. He held him close as he thrust up into him.

Sherlock reached behind him and pressed his palm against Mycroft’s lower back, closing the circuit of contact between them.

Mycroft had planned to make Sherlock wait for his orgasm - an act of dominance Sherlock would doubtless enjoy - but this position, with their bodies so close he could smell his shampoo, filled him with such tenderness that he couldn’t be in that role. Not right now. He wrapped his other hand around his brother’s cock and stroked him, each shove of his hips magnifying the action.

He was already close, and it wasn’t long before he came, muttering some euphoric derivation of Sherlock’s name into his neck. He held him there, tightly and breathlessly for long seconds, before he started kissing the sweat away from his shoulder as he stroked him to completion. Sherlock arched his back and groaned as he came into Mycroft’s fist. Once the orgasm subsided, he relaxed against his brother, letting him bear his weight as he rested his head on Mycroft’s shoulder.

Mycroft pulled the ridiculous makeshift gag from his brother’s mouth.

“You’re not going to make me lick it up, then?” Sherlock asked, with a trace of amusement in his voice.

Mycroft held his hand up to Sherlock’s face. “Why, do you want to?”

His tongue darted out for a quick taste. “Hm. Not bad. A bit salty - I could probably do with more vegetables in my diet.”

“You could _always_ do with more vegetables in your diet. I don’t think what you eat even counts as food.” He grasped the base of his cock and pulled out carefully, then got off the bed. He wrapped the used condom in several tissues before binning it, and grinned. “If they find this, it’s their own damned fault.” He handed Sherlock some tissues. “I’m getting a shower. Do you want one? I’ll try not to use too much hot water - I don’t know how long it’ll last in a place like this.”

“I’ll share with you. We can swap places while we rinse.”

Mycroft turned on the shower, desperately trying to find the spot on the dial that was neither freezing nor scalding. Locating it was not unlike brokering world peace. “If I ever own a hotel, it’ll have endless supplies of hot water and decent-sized showers. And separate baths.”

“And huge beds,” Sherlock added.

“Four-poster beds so you can tie up your lover,” Mycroft said, pulling Sherlock in for a kiss. “And no one will ask why you’re there, or who you’re with, or check the sheets for semen stains.”

“And soundproof walls.”

“Mm. That too,” Mycroft replied idly, as he soaped up his body. “You could probably put that on the brochure: satellite television and soundproof walls.”


	24. Shopping Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Sherlock go on a shopping trip. Sherlock buys some new toys.

Mycroft paused for a second before he opened the door to the sex shop: the same one he’d once visited with Jonathan.

Sherlock completely misinterpreted the action. “Don’t worry, nobody from work will recognise you.”

Mycroft shook off his sense of dread and walked in. It had been years. He was with Sherlock now, and Sherlock would never reject him for being ‘sick’.

Sherlock’s everyday demeanour was one of feigned boredom, but he acted like a child on Christmas morning when he saw all the toys. He surveyed the room, taking in the colourful selection with gleeful abandon. When he saw the dildos and plugs, his jaw dropped. “Oh.” He turned to Mycroft. “I had no idea there were so many variations.”

Mycroft grinned. He’d seen them before, but apparently Sherlock hadn’t. It was nice to be the more experienced one for a change.

“God. There’s so many of them. How would you even choose?”

“Personal preference, I would imagine. We could always get a few and see what you like.” He raised an eyebrow salaciously. “We already have a rough idea of what you can take.”

Sherlock pulled down a package containing a plug quite a bit wider than Mycroft.

“Well, you’ve always been ambitious.”

“You say that like you think I can’t take it.”

“On the contrary…” Mycroft walked to the section with vibrating toys. “Here. You should try one of these, too.”

They made their way around the shop, and Sherlock filled the basket with toys. Four dildos, one of which was obscenely proportioned. (“It’s good to have goals,” Sherlock said. Mycroft had agreed.) A set of anal beads. Three plugs. (Once again, Mycroft thought the largest represented a little too much optimism, but knowing Sherlock, anything was possible.) Two gags - one pear-shaped and another that appeared to be some sort of horse bit adapted for human use. A vibrating prostate massager. A non-vibrating prostate massager. (Thank goodness for product labelling.) Mycroft wondered if they could get a bulk discount and buy the toys per gram of silicone. Money wasn’t an issue, but the last time he’d made a purchase this large it had involved bedroom furniture.

Sherlock walked over to the section with the bondage equipment and pain toys. “These are nice,” he said, holding up a pair of sturdy leather cuffs. He ran his tongue across his lips and added, “I wouldn’t be able to move with these on.”

Until this point, Mycroft had been an amused, somewhat detached observer, but Sherlock’s words sent a rush of arousal through him. “No,” he said, surprised at how difficult it was to get his words out. “No, you wouldn’t.” He swallowed and then selected a complete set of sturdy leather restraints - ankle, wrist, and thigh cuffs, and a collar.

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft’s crotch and then back at his face with obvious amusement. “I thought you might like those.”

“Brat. But you’re not wrong.”

Mycroft was imagining how his brother would look with his hands cuffed behind his back when Sherlock took a ventilated paddle from the wall display.

A sense of horror shot through him and he fought the urge to flee.

“No.”

Sherlock turned around with a confused look.

“Why not?”

“Just… no,” Mycroft managed to say. He’d gone from arousal to panic in a matter of seconds. “I can’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said, hurrying to put it back on the wall. “What’s wrong? I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“It’s not you. Look, I’d rather not talk about it at the moment. Later.” He took a deep breath and regained some of his composure. “You can buy everything in the shop if you want, but not that.”

“All right. I’m sorry; I had no idea.”

Mycroft gave him a weak smile. “I know. Thank you.”

Sherlock seemed too disconcerted to do too much shopping after that, and after a discussion with the owner about the proper choice of lube, they walked out of the shop with two large bags full of sex toys.

Sherlock was quiet in the taxi back to the flat, and Mycroft finally broke the silence. “I apologise; I reacted badly.”

“Don’t apologise. Jonathan?” The question didn’t really need to be asked.

Mycroft looked away and nodded.

“I’m sorry.”

“I thought I was over it by now.”

Sherlock reached over and took his hand. “It was last week. These things take time.”

“It was over a year ago.”

He watched the realisation cross Sherlock’s face. “Oh.” The taxi echoed with the sounds of the traffic as they both sat there in silence. Sherlock finally spoke again. “Do you want to… talk about it?”

“No… I don’t know. Perhaps someday.”

Mycroft tried, but he couldn’t force the return of his earlier good mood, and Sherlock seemed at a loss for topics of conversation. It was awkward, and he cursed himself for ruining things. When they got back to the flat, Sherlock put the sex toys in the bedroom, out of sight and out of mind for the time being.

After dinner, he tried to read, but he couldn’t focus on his book. His mind kept wandering to his first disastrous experience with the paddle. When he broke the silence, the words fell out of his mouth in a rush. He didn’t look at Sherlock - he just stared at his book as he spoke, its text a blur on the page. “I don’t know why I thought I could trust Jonathan with my pain; it seems ludicrous now. You even tried to warn me about him at Christmas, but I overlooked so many things that should have sent me running. Our sex life was a mess. I thought if he understood what pain meant to me, perhaps we could salvage things; I’d been denying that part of myself for so long. The man at the shop tried to dissuade us from getting the paddle with the holes. It left blisters; I could barely sit for three days.”

“Oh, my God.”

“Jonathan told me I was ‘sick’. A ‘fucking pervert’. I should have left him, but I desperately wanted things to work. I threw the paddle away and we never talked about it again. I kept the crop… I don’t know why. I suppose because I didn’t know if you still had the other one. I never used it with him. It was something positive - a reminder that at least you understood me.” He took a deep breath, relieved to have it out in the open. He’d never told anyone.

Sherlock came over and stood in front of him. “You’re not sick, you know.”

“I know.”

His brother bent down and gave him a gentle kiss before he walked towards the kitchen. Then he looked over his shoulder with a grin and said, “But I’m a much bigger pervert than you; you’ll have to work to keep up with me.”

 


	25. Branching Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Sherlock experiment with some of their new toys.

The toys sat untouched for three days, perhaps out of some respectful period of mourning. But that night, when Mycroft got home from work, he could tell something was up. Sherlock moved around the flat with a high-energy thrum and a self-satisfied grin on his face.

“Evening, My. How was your day?”

“Fine; nothing unusual. What’s… going on?” he asked, nervously glancing around the flat. He expected to see some tell-tale sign justifying Sherlock’s mood: new lab equipment; test samples; new corrosive acid stains in the sink, perhaps.

“Nothing. I just had a good day.”

“Good enough to include making me a cup of tea?”

“Of course,” Sherlock replied, and practically floated by him into the kitchen.

“I know you did something; you’re never normally this… cheery.” Mycroft peered at him with a suspicious frown.

Sherlock turned on the kettle and walked up behind him, wrapped his arms around his waist, and kissed his neck.

“I got a little housework done.”

Mycroft glanced around. “Really? I’d never have guessed.” His area was pristine, as usual, but Sherlock’s stacks of books and notes were undisturbed. “Perhaps we have different definitions of housework.”

“Mm. Perhaps.” Sherlock took his hand and dragged him towards the bedroom. “I installed some fixtures.”

As he entered the bedroom, Mycroft saw all the toys set out in neat lines on their dressing table. On some unbidden, panicked impulse, he scanned them. There were a few snap hooks and a small padlock he didn’t remember purchasing, but no paddle. He took a breath.

_You’re overreacting._

Sherlock squinted slightly, assessing the flicker of emotion he’d seen cross Mycroft’s face, but said nothing.

“I made a few adjustments to the bed. Nothing visible, but we can use ropes to secure the cuffs…” He bent down, showing Mycroft where he’d installed an eye bolt to the inside of each of the wooden legs.

Mycroft grabbed one and tugged, and found it to be completely unyielding.

“Very nice.”

“If it’s too soon…”

Their previous two nights of sex had been distinctly vanilla, although not in a bad way. Sherlock seemed unnerved by the incident with Jonathan, and they’d both tacitly avoided any mention of it. He didn’t want to tell him about his gut reaction to the toys a few moments earlier.

“Thank you for asking. I believe I’ve put it behind me, as long as I avoid certain triggers.” It wasn’t an outright lie; he’d just have to desensitise himself to those triggers. Positive reinforcement was a good place to start.

He still craved the pain; the sensation; the heady euphoria of a good thrashing, but it seemed so dangerous. He cursed his emotional fragility: he’d panicked at a row of toys, for Christ’s sake. He shuddered to think how he might react to an actual beating. He needed to get his pathetic emotions under control before he could even consider involving Sherlock in his desire for pain. He shook off his thoughts and brought his focus back to his brother, who was rummaging around in his sock drawer. Watching him, the panic drained away, replaced by affection and slight amusement that Sherlock now saw DIY shops as potential sources of bondage equipment.

“I bought rope, as well,” he said, holding four coils of soft nylon rope like some sort of adventurer. “I don’t know if you’ll want to use them all together; it might limit our options.”

“Really? Perhaps you haven’t been thinking about it hard enough. Tomorrow, I want you to come up with at least one position that immobilises you and doesn’t involve just stretching you between the corners of the bed. I’m sure you’re up to the task.”

“Are you saying you _don’t_ want to see me stretched out like that?” Sherlock asked coyly.

The room suddenly felt too warm. “I don’t believe I did.” He picked up the black leather collar from the line of toys and held it up. “Did you have any plans for the evening?”

“Only whatever you have in mind.”

“Well, you’ve had a good look at all _your_ new toys. Now I want a good look at mine.”

It was all the provocation Sherlock needed; he tossed his shirt into a heap on the floor and his trousers were about to follow.

“Which of the toys did you use today?” It was only a theory: they all looked unused, but it seemed unlikely Sherlock had shown that much restraint.

“You didn’t say I couldn’t,” Sherlock said, a bit too quickly and peevishly.

He ran his hand across the array of silicone toys. “I didn’t say you could, either.” He picked up a medium-sized plug that felt particularly well-cleaned.

A flick of Sherlock’s eyebrows verified his hunch. “Tell me how you used it.”

“I would have thought that was obvious.”

“No, what did you _do_?”

“I inserted it and left it in place while I masturbated.”

“Hm, did you, now? And what was the result?”

“Positive.”

“Meaning?”

“I came in no time.”

“I can imagine. I’ll have to keep that in mind.” He rubbed the soft leather of the collar between his fingers and inhaled the rich scent. It always took him back to the stables at the manor and the positive memories they held. “Is this what you bought the padlock for?”

Sherlock dropped his eyes in mild embarrassment. “I liked the idea of you keeping the key,” he mumbled. “Of having to wear it whenever you wanted me to.”

 _Oh._ Mycroft took a deep breath. _He_ liked the idea, too. It was overtly submissive; more than he would have expected from Sherlock.

He’d bought the collar on a whim - it had seemed like a natural addition to the cuffs, but now this strip of black leather took on a whole new significance: Sherlock wanted _him_ to dictate when and how long it would be worn. This wasn’t just a sex toy anymore; Sherlock had offered it as proof of his desire to submit. The thought sent a rush of heat through him. He picked up the small padlock and held it next to the collar, a few inches from Sherlock’s face.

“Are you sure? Because once I put this on your lovely neck, I might never want to take it off. Then you’ll have to wear a scarf when you go out, or people will know that someone _owns_ you.”

Sherlock’s breathing quickened. “Yes, I’m sure.”

Mycroft beamed. Sherlock lifted his chin to give Mycroft better access to his neck - a ridiculous notion really, with a neck like his, but an endearing gesture. He smoothed the collar into place and buckled it shut.

Holding up the padlock, he said, “Remember: the key belongs to me. If you remove the collar without asking, or pick the lock, you lose the right to wear it. Understood?” He had no intention of humiliating Sherlock by making him wear it in public - or even on a regular basis - not unless he wanted that. Then he remembered Sherlock at the window of the B&B and smiled, realising his brother’s exhibitionist tendencies might make public wear a distinct possibility.

Sherlock nodded. “I wouldn’t have bought it if I didn’t want you to dictate when I wore it.”

_Bloody hell._

He bit his lower lip in an effort to retain his composure, then slid the pin of the padlock through the purpose-built holes in the buckle and locked it; there was an audible click. He placed the tiny key in his waistcoat pocket and made a mental note to find a more permanent home for it. Sherlock ran his fingers between his neck and the collar, testing its sturdiness and fit, and then beamed. “All yours.”

 _God._ “All mine.” He glanced down at his collared, naked, very aroused brother. It was all he could do not to push him onto the bed and fuck him through the mattress.

Instead, he nodded towards the heap of clothes. “You’re not going to leave those on the floor, are you?”

Sherlock stood there defiantly and smiled.

Mycroft hooked his finger through the ring on the collar and pulled him close. In a low, purring voice, he said, “You know, if you want to be punished, I suggest you ask nicely, because if I have to make you behave, you aren’t nearly as likely to enjoy it.”

“I doubt that.”

“Well, we’ll soon find out, won’t we?” He tugged down sharply on the collar. “On your knees, and stay there.”

Sherlock did as he was told this time, already looking like he was enjoying the ‘punishment’ far too much.

Mycroft picked up some toys and dropped them on the bed, then he attached cuffs to Sherlock’s wrists and ankles. He clipped his feet together, but before fastening his wrists to each other, he paused.

“On your hands and knees.”

Sherlock complied, but looked back to watch as Mycroft slicked an oddly-shaped prostate massager with lube. It didn’t vibrate, but the attendant at the shop had assured them that it was a wonderful addition to ‘manual stimulation’. Mycroft wondered how much of a distraction it would provide.

Holding it by the s-shaped base, he slid the slim toy into Sherlock’s arse. It didn’t penetrate far: just as much as it needed to do its job. One nub of the base rested against his perineum; the other sat between his cheeks. It didn’t seem to make an immediate difference to Sherlock’s level of arousal, but it was difficult to tell: he was already hard.

“I don’t know what you think that’s going to do by itself,” Sherlock started to say, but Mycroft cut him off.

“I don’t think I asked for a running commentary.” He snatched the pear-shaped silicone gag from the bed and pushed it into his brother’s mouth, garnering a surprised ‘mphf’ in response. Sherlock’s lips sealed around it in an obscene ‘o’ shape, and he secured the strap tightly around his head. “Can you breathe properly?”

Sherlock nodded, wide-eyed.

“Good. Back on your knees.”

Once he was upright and kneeling again, Mycroft clipped his wrists together behind his back. Sherlock shifted against the intrusion in his arse, subtly testing different positions.

“Do squirm all you want. Please.”

Sherlock frowned.

“No, really. I want you to. I’d like to see if the device works; I plan on trying it myself at some point, but you’ll make a good test subject.”

It didn’t take him long to find the right position. His eyes went wide and he gave a muffled cry through the gag.

“Ah, there we go; I wondered how long it would take you. I’ll just observe for a while.” He tried to ignore his own erection as Sherlock squirmed on the massager - unable to touch his cock.

Mycroft stood back and took in the view: his bound, gagged brother, kneeling before him with a straining erection, unable to do anything about his sexual frustration except make it more intense.

_What a pretty sight._

He pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat and noted the time, deliberately not commenting on how long he’d leave Sherlock there.

“You should see yourself, all trussed up like this. I must say, I do like these cuffs.” He bent down to run his fingers along the edge of the leather and then tugged on them to remind Sherlock of their effectiveness. The action nearly threw his brother off-balance, but he managed to catch himself. “I’m thrilled by your initiative with the padlock, and the eye-bolts are very creative. I’m not sure we’ll be needing them tonight; I don’t think you plan on going anywhere, do you?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“I didn’t think so.”

His brother continued to shift his hips, and every now and then Mycroft saw him shudder with pleasure. It wasn’t constant; it was just enough to keep him wanting more. Working for more.

_Perfect._

Mycroft mentally noted that he was still completely dressed in one of his nicest suits, and Sherlock was naked, except for a few straps of leather. The disparity pleased him.

He heard the clink of metal as Sherlock unconsciously tried to move his hand to his erection. He gave a muffled groan and glanced pleadingly at his cock.

“Oh, did you want me to do something about that?”

Sherlock looked hopeful.

“Sorry; I did tell you that you’d regret it if you didn’t behave.” He sat down in the chair opposite his brother and smiled. “Perhaps if you try hard enough with that toy, you’ll be able to orgasm without my assistance. It’s certainly an interesting experiment.”

Sherlock’s expression made Mycroft think he wasn’t particularly keen on it.

“Why would I take you in hand when I can watch you helpless like this? Your desperation is beautiful. I should deny you the use of your hands more often; you wrap them around your cock almost the moment it gets hard. It’s much more fun to make you wait. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this hard. Practically bursting.” He drew out the last word and smiled as he ran his tongue across his upper lip.

Sherlock moaned through the gag.

“I’m sure just a few strokes would do it, wouldn’t they? I wonder how much longer it’ll take using only that toy?”

Mycroft let one hand drift from the arm of his chair to the bulge currently deforming the excellent cut of his trousers.

“You’re quite a sight, you know.” He dragged his hand gently across his groin and let out a slow sigh at the pleasure he’d been denying himself. “All tied up like this, just waiting for me to take you.” He applied slightly more pressure with his palm this time, and it felt like heaven. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes as he took a deep breath through his nose.

“Finding it difficult to concentrate?” Mycroft’s voice was low and soothing, and the noise of his hand brushing against the fine wool of his trousers whispered just above it. “I know watching you is certainly driving _me_ to distraction.” He traced the outline of his erection with one finger, purely for Sherlock’s benefit. He was desperately aroused, but now he wanted to see how far he could push his little brother. Could he bring him to orgasm like this?

“It’s such a shame you’re over there, isn’t it?” He slowly unbuttoned his trousers and lowered his zip. “If you were here, you’d be able to help me with this.” He ran his hand against the silk of his boxers, relishing the softness of it against his penis. It felt so much better without his trousers muffling the sensation. “You’d be able to undress me.”

Sherlock’s gaze wasn’t even pointed at his face anymore; all his attention was focused on Mycroft’s lap, and he seemed to be leaning forward in an effort to get closer.

Mycroft lowered his pants, pushing them - along with his trousers - snugly beneath his balls. His cock pressed aggressively against his shirt, and he sighed. “Without your pretty mouth wrapped around me, I’m going to ruin this shirt. The sight of you all tied up like that makes me positively _leak_.”

Sherlock made a sound that wouldn’t have been dignified even if he hadn’t been gagged.

He unbuttoned his waistcoat with painstaking slowness and placed it on the floor, then he undid the bottom buttons of his shirt so he could push it out of the way. Satisfied that his boxers would be the only casualty - as long as he was careful not to lose control - he returned to the task at hand: undoing his brother.

“How does that gag feel, hm? Is it anything like having me in your mouth? Nothing like the taste of salt and warm skin, I suppose. I do love the moment when I push the head of it between your lips. You’re always so welcoming. So wet. So very eager. But I suppose since you’re unable to assist me, I’ll have to manage by myself.”

He favoured Sherlock with a slow, teasing smile before he took himself loosely in hand and ran small circles around the glans with his thumb. He closed his eyes and sighed. It was nowhere near as good as Sherlock’s mouth, but he felt the rush of it all the same. Then he paused. There was a small pearl of pre-ejaculate gathering at the slit, and he ran his finger through it. He brought it to his mouth and flicked out his tongue for a taste.

“Hm. Quite pleasant. Would you prefer this to the taste of silicone?”

An aggressive nod.

Mycroft just smiled again.

Sherlock wasn’t even trying to hide his repetitive movements as the massager rubbed his prostate in precisely the right way. Mycroft prayed his brother could come like this, without a hand on his cock. For all his calm exterior, he wanted nothing more than to tear the gag from Sherlock’s mouth and fuck his willing throat raw, but a few remaining shreds of self-control prevented him.

He considered a few indulgent strokes from his fist, but he’d orgasm almost immediately. He was determined to make Sherlock come first. Somehow. _Perhaps…_

He stood, carefully holding his erection away from his clothes, and crossed the room. He stopped two feet in front of Sherlock, who gazed up at him through his dark eyelashes. _Fucking gorgeous._

Sherlock lifted himself up into a taller kneeling position, trying to get closer, but Mycroft stepped back, just out of reach. His brother dropped back down, knowing better now than to overbalance.

“Do you like kneeling at my feet like this, unable to move?”

He nodded, and the look in his eyes was sheer need.

“Imagine the things I’ll be able to do, now that I can restrain you. Nothing you don’t want, of course, but it gives us… possibilities. I’ll tie you on your back with your thighs pulled towards your chest. You’ll be all spread open for me, and I’ll work on you for hours; massage your pretty little hole open with my tongue as a reward for good behaviour.”

A needy sound escaped Sherlock’s lips: a soundtrack for Mycroft’s running commentary.

“Mm. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? It wouldn’t take long before your arse would be so relaxed and open for me. Positively gaping.” He moved back towards Sherlock, bringing his cock almost - but not quite - within reach of his gagged mouth. “Just dying to be stretched open with whatever I choose.”

Sherlock leaned forward again, desperate to get close enough.

“What is it you want? Are you going to rub your face against my cock until I come?” He was certainly aroused enough for that to be possible - even the touch of Sherlock’s skin would send him over the edge at this point. But what could he do to make his brother come?

Sherlock was as close to orgasm as he was, and it wouldn’t take much. _Oh._ His brother had provided him with the answer when they’d first become intimate.

“Are you sure you want that?” He reached out and ran his fingers lovingly down Sherlock’s cheek before letting his voice turn low and harsh. “I don’t need your mouth; I’ll rut against your cheekbones until I cover your face with my come, then I’ll take your gag out and have you clean me with your tongue, like a common little _slut_.”

Sherlock threw his head back and shuddered as the orgasm overpowered him.

 _Never underestimate the power of language_ , Mycroft thought, with a shred of amusement. He watched, fascinated. Usually he was too involved in the proceedings to _observe_ like this. Semen pulsed in thick streams from his brother’s cock, some splattering his stomach and the rest running thickly down its length. Sherlock gasped for air through his nose, and Mycroft quickly removed the gag, suddenly thankful for the velcro closure he’d earlier scorned as poor manufacturing. Sherlock took a few deep breaths, and then he started to laugh; it was possibly one of the most joyous sounds Mycroft had ever heard his brother make.

He quickly unhooked his wrists and ankles, leaving the cuffs in place; they could remove them later. Sherlock gave him a look of sheer wonder as Mycroft helped him to his feet.

“You realise this is unprecedented?” he said, still laughing intermittently. “I used to try this when I was in school. I was convinced it would be more efficient if I could just think my way to orgasm.”

“It wasn’t _completely_ unaided,” Mycroft said, with a glance towards his arse.

“True. Ow, my knees.” He rubbed on them, absently.

“I thought you liked being on your knees,” Mycroft said, in a voice that dripped with sex. Sherlock might be sated, but he certainly wasn’t, and he wasn’t above reminding him.

“Oh…” Sherlock replied as his breath caught in his throat. “I like being wherever you want me to be.”

“And so you should.”

Mycroft had planned to fuck Sherlock’s mouth until he came, but suddenly he had a better idea.

“I want you braced against the wall with your arse ready for my crop.”

“Yes, sir.” He said it with respect and no trace of irony. The title aroused Mycroft even further.

He grabbed the crop from the wardrobe and savoured the sight of his brother: his arms braced against the wall, cuffs encircling his wrists, still slightly hard, with semen spattered across his stomach and clinging to his cock. _Filthy. Delicious._

And his for the taking.

“I trust you can manage without the gag?”

He nodded.

Mycroft swung the crop and made contact with his left cheek. Sherlock grunted and stuck his arse out further in invitation.

“God, you love this as much as I do, don’t you?” Mycroft said, not sure if he meant giving or receiving. Both, perhaps.

“Yes, sir.”

He struck him three more times, with just enough force that he could watch the red marks blossom on his brother’s pale skin. It was all he needed. With a sigh, he placed one hand on top of Sherlock’s and finished himself off with the other, coming all over his brother’s freshly marked skin. He rode it out and then pulled Sherlock into an embrace, not caring that he’d ruin his shirt. “My God, you’re amazing. Are you all right?” he asked, placing small kisses along his shoulder and enjoying the taste of his skin.

“Mm. Wonderful. Much more of that, and I’d be ready for another go.”

Mycroft bit him lightly. “Tease.”

“Mm,” he said, sounding drunk on endorphins. “You know, we should have got that flogger we saw at the shop.”

“I don’t know how to use one.”

“Well, I’m sure we can find _someone_ qualified to teach you.”


	26. Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Sherlock seek out some professional instruction for their new toys.

The search for an instructor didn’t take long. All it took was a return visit to the sex shop and a few discreet questions. While Sherlock filled yet another basket with even more toys, Mycroft spoke with the proprietor.

“I wonder if you could help me with a recommendation for some professional services.”

The man squinted and looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Not sure… what sort of services, exactly?”

They were probably thinking about different types of services, Mycroft realised. _How embarrassing._

“Purely educational. I’d like to get some instruction in the use of…” he glanced at Sherlock’s overflowing basket, “well, apparently most of the pain toys in your shop.”

“Oh… yes, _that_ I can help with,” he said with relief. “We get other enquiries, you see…”

Mycroft smirked. “I can imagine.”

“This bloke is strictly professional, mind. He won’t stand for any nonsense.”

“Exactly what I’m looking for.”

“Okay. Let me get you his number.”

He returned with a handwritten phone number and the name ‘David’. “He’s very good, and you can trust him. Tell him I gave you his name, though; he’s a bit suspicious of random enquiries.”

When they left the shop with the toys—this time of the pain-inflicting variety—Sherlock smirked. “So, you got the contact then?”

“Mm.”

“It’s all very secretive, isn’t it?” he said in an overly conspiratorial voice. “You’d think we were buying cocaine or something.”

Mycroft glanced around to make sure no one had heard him, and then he sighed. “ _Please_ tell me you’re not familiar with the process.”

“Not personally.”

“Thank God for that. Come on, let’s get back and phone him, shall we?”

* * *

David asked to meet in person, presumably to run some sort of gut-level check on them before he committed to anything, which was how they found themselves sitting on a bench in Kensington Park, discussing sex and pain in vague terms that wouldn’t alarm the tourists.

David looked more like a young banker than a ‘Tom of Finland’ model, and he blended in seamlessly with the lunchtime crowd. Mycroft wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but this wasn’t it. His low-key appearance and personable attitude put Mycroft at ease immediately.

“You understand that I don’t provide any… additional services?”

“Completely. Nor are we looking for any. I just need instruction with various implements.”

Sherlock sat next to Mycroft, smirked, and stayed blessedly quiet.

“That can be arranged. Will both of you be coming?”

“Yes,” said Mycroft.

“I’ll be the lucky recipient.”

He wished Sherlock hadn’t said it like he’d just won a game show prize.

“Actually, you both will.”

Mycroft whipped around to look at David. “What?”

“You can’t teach someone properly without having them experience the effect.”

Mycroft’s world crashed to a halt and he felt like he was going to be sick, breathing forgotten as his brain warred with itself in the space of milliseconds.

> _I can’t do this. I’m not ready to face it._
> 
> Ha. That’s not it: you’re afraid you’ll enjoy it.
> 
> _No. I don’t want to break down in front of Sherlock. It was fine when I thought I’d just be using them on him. I can separate myself from that._
> 
> So you’d rather ignore the problem completely and hope it goes away? Your need for pain hasn’t gone away, and how many years have you ignored that now, hm? Healthy.
> 
> _I just need more time._
> 
> Sherlock could help you get through this. David could teach you both. You know Sherlock would be good at it; besides, he wants to—don’t you remember Edinburgh?
> 
> _Oh, God. We’re not going to discuss Edinburgh. Sherlock is my responsibility and I will not subject him to feelings I can’t control. My need for pain is irrelevant. We’re together now; that’s more than enough._
> 
> So you’re going to deny Sherlock what _he_ needs instead, by refusing to learn how to do this?
> 
> _No… it’s not like that._
> 
> It _is_ like that.
> 
> _I’m not ready to deal with this. Not yet. I’ll just stick to the crop if I have to; we’ve made it work for this long._

He took a breath, and the world moved again. Sherlock and David both looked at him with concern.

“I’m terribly sorry, David, but that won’t be possible. Is this negotiable?”

“I’m sorry, but no.”

Perhaps there were other instructors that wouldn’t require this of him.

Sherlock stood up, pasted on one of his winning smiles, and turned to David. “We’ll need a few minutes, if you don’t mind.” Then he practically dragged Mycroft off the bench.

David nodded. “Of course.”

Sherlock hurried Mycroft towards a tree, slightly out of earshot. He stared at him for about half a second before declaring, “You can get past the thing with Jonathan. I know you can.”

“It’s not just that.”

“Oh…” he said, as recognition swept across his face. “Then let yourself enjoy it. What’s the problem?”

“That’s precisely the problem. I’m not ready to.”

Sherlock considered this for a few seconds. “Do you still want to learn how to use the toys?”

“Of course.”

“Then focus on quantifying the experience; you’ll be in control of your mind, even if your body betrays you. I’m sure you can manage it.”

He looked at Sherlock, doubtfully. “You’re oversimplifying things.”

Sherlock seemed to weigh his options, then he fixed him in his gaze and said, “All right, then. Do it for me.” Half a second ticked by. “Please.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at the request. Sherlock knew exactly how to wear down his resistance.

“You know I want the pain; need it, even.” Sherlock’s voice held a note of desperation. “You enjoy giving it to me. You want to make sure you know what you’re doing: this is how we do that. Either we do this or we don’t, but we have to play by his rules.”

Sherlock was right. He was also a manipulative little brat, and they both knew it. Arguing with Sherlock wasn’t like arguing with himself; he always let Sherlock win.

“Yes, all right. For you.”

He’d get through it somehow.

* * *

David took more convincing.

“That’s a pretty big change of heart. Mind explaining why you said ‘no’ a few minutes ago?”

He sighed. David had the right to know, of course. He was glad—on one level—that he’d asked. It spoke to his professionalism.

“There’s… a history. Things I don’t want to confront.”

David frowned. “And now you think you can manage it?”

 _Not really._ “I believe so.”

“And you’re not doing it—” he glanced at Sherlock, “—just because he asked you to?”

“On the contrary, that’s precisely why I’m doing it.”

The answer seemed to throw him. He gave Sherlock another suspicious look before he turned back to Mycroft. “Fine. I’ll take your word for it that you can handle this, but if things start going south, it’s off. Understood?”

“Perfectly.”

“I’m available in the evenings. You should allow two hours, and you should bring your ‘tools’ with you. I don’t rush things—it might require multiple sessions.” He handed Mycroft a card with an address and a phone number. “Thursday night at 7, if that works for both of you.”

“That sounds perfect, thank you.”

David gave them a polite smile and left, quickly blending in with the lunchtime crowd of tourists and workers.

Mycroft let out a sigh of relief. Perhaps he _could_ do this, after all.

“I don’t think he likes me,” Sherlock said, vaguely coy.

“No, he just doesn’t trust you; there’s a difference. He thinks you manipulated me into this.”

“I did.”

“I know, but I allowed it. He doesn’t understand our history. To him, you just look like a pushy boyfriend; I shudder to think what he’d say if he knew our true relationship.”

* * *

“I don’t know how this is going to go, so you’d better take the toys you want most. There might not be a second session,” Mycroft said, surveying the array of implements spread out on the bed.

“Relax. You’ll be fine.”

Mycroft resisted the urge to snap at him. Last-minute nerves were taking their toll, and he settled for a ‘look’ that suggested Sherlock back off.

 _I can do this._ He’d been telling himself that for two days now. ‘The power of positive thinking’ wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

David’s address took them to an unassuming house in the suburbs of London. He answered the door dressed in a nice t-shirt and jeans—something of a relief since Mycroft wasn’t sure if he’d be decked out in leather. Sherlock wore his usual bit-on-the-tight-side shirt and trousers; Mycroft was similarly dressed, but in sizes that actually fit.

“Can I get you some tea? Water?”

 _‘Scotch?’_ Mycroft thought.

“I’m fine, thank you.” Sherlock declined as well.

He led them to a living room and offered them a seat.

“All right. So. Have you ever heard of the concept of a safeword?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “Verbal and non-verbal; also levels: ‘red’, ‘yellow’, and ‘green’.”

“Good.” He turned to Mycroft. “Now, this ‘history’ of yours: I need you to elaborate, or at least tell me how you plan on dealing with it during the session.”

He’d expected this. He’d vacillated between giving a cagey response or a brutally honest one all evening. Better a full disclosure…

“I’m a switch.” Sherlock looked surprised at his admission. “I had a bad experience with someone else, and I’m still fighting that. I’m also worried that I’ll enjoy this, and I can’t cope with that at the moment. I’m not here to work through it; I’m here because this is something he wants and he’s worth it.”

There was a brief pause before David spoke. “That’s very helpful, thanks. So, we’ll try this and see how things go. You’ll both have safewords, and I expect you to use them. I’ll keep our interactions as minimal as possible, Mycroft, but you have to tell me if anything triggers you.”

He nodded.

“Any sort of prior experience?”

“I’ve used a riding crop for a while.”

“How long?”

“Um, years, I suppose.”

Raised eyebrows. “Okay, then. Any physical problems I should know about?”

“No.”

“All right. Follow me.”

He led them upstairs, into a large bedroom. Well. There was a bed in the room, but that was where the similarities ended. The furniture: Mycroft barely knew where to start. The sturdy wooden grid braced against the wall; a chair sporting a large dildo; a low bench with attachment points; a padded sawhorse; a leather sling with stirrups; a _cage._ He looked at Sherlock, wide-eyed, and found him similarly enthralled.

_And here we are, smug about our eye-bolts in the bed posts. Who knew?_

“We’ll do most of our practice on this,” he said, pointing to the grid, “but also on the floor and the bed, so you can get a feel for different heights and positions. Right: ground rules. No nudity. Both of you strip down to your pants, and put your clothes on that table. No hands on cocks—yours or his. If you get off on this, you’ll have to deal with it outside of this house, no matter how much your balls ache.”

Mycroft couldn’t help but grin: the rules were so similar to the ones he’d made all those years ago. They both nodded their agreement and disrobed.

They started with the flogger. Mycroft grasped the upper rungs of the grid, and David started with soft, slow strokes against his upper back. He gradually increased his force, giving a running commentary about technique the entire time. Mycroft was grateful: he absorbed David’s advice on how to hit, places to avoid, length of time to spend on an area… so many different details to take his mind off the slowly increasing thrum of sensation that he recognised as incipient euphoria. He started to give himself over to the warm buzz of pleasure. _Why was I so afraid of this?_

David stopped just as Mycroft started to lose himself a bit, and reality sharpened around him.

“Okay, his turn. Sherlock, you’ll tell Mycroft when to stop. “Yellow” for ‘stay at that level but keep going’ and “red” for ‘I’ve had enough.’ If you don’t say anything, I’ll have him intensify the strokes as I deem appropriate. This isn’t the only toy you’ll be getting tonight, so keep that in mind.”

He coached Mycroft through the process of using the flogger: increasing the intensity, changing the patterns, showing him where and how to strike. Sherlock stood there and took it, more than content to be the recipient.

“Still okay?” David asked. Sherlock still hadn’t given any signal, and Mycroft was striking quite hard now.

“Mm,” he said, sounding more blissed-out than anything.

David laughed. “High tolerance for pain, eh? Okay, let’s move on or we’ll be here all night. What’s next?”

Sherlock chose the cane: something neither of them had tried.

Mycroft took his brother’s place, more relaxed this time.

“This one has more of a bite. Upper thighs. You ready?”

He nodded.

The first four strokes stung—in a distinctly non-sexual way. He was just about to say something when the fifth cut through the air, harder than the others. It landed just below the line of his pants and felt like a knife slicing across his legs.

“Fuck!” He tried not to react, but he couldn’t help it. He dodged to the side and instinctively took a defensive posture. “No, stop! Red!” It was too much, too fast, just like it had been with Jonathan. The fear and panic of that experience came rushing back—his fears about this session suddenly justified.

“Oh hell,” David muttered before he rushed to Mycroft’s side.

Sherlock was already there.

“My?”

Mycroft’s eyes were squeezed shut, his back pressed against the wall.

“My… it’s okay. I’m here,” Sherlock said, almost in a whisper.

David stepped back and let Sherlock comfort him, while he went over to a wardrobe to get a blanket.

Mycroft opened his eyes, but they had a haunted look to them. When Sherlock reached out to touch him, he instinctively drew away.

“It’s all right; it’s me… you’re okay,” Sherlock said, but he didn’t sound convinced; he sounded terrified.

David returned with the blanket but kept his distance. Sherlock lightly grasped his brother’s hand and drew him away from the wall. “Come here.”

At the familiarity of Sherlock’s touch, his panic started to abate a little. He took a deep breath and attempted to regain his composure.

“I… I’m fine. I overreacted.” He wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince: Sherlock or himself.

David handed Sherlock the blanket, who draped it across his brother’s shoulders. Mycroft didn’t argue.

“You’re not fine. Here, sit down.”

 _Stop sounding so scared, Sherlock. Please._ He sat on the bed, partly to satisfy his brother, and partly because he still felt so adrift. He winced when the top of his legs touched the duvet.

David stood there, observing, looking very concerned. “I’m so sorry, Mycroft. It seemed like you were okay…”

Mycroft interrupted him by raising his hand, and then he rubbed his face and sighed. “It wasn’t you. It was the sharpness of the pain that triggered me; it was too similar... I should have said something when you started.”

It was true, and David didn’t try to argue the point.

A dismal sense of failure washed over him as he looked at his brother. _I’m so sorry, Sherlock. I thought I could do this._

Sherlock, still looking extremely shaken, laid a hand on Mycroft’s thigh. “Are you okay?”

_I need to pull myself together; I can’t let this control me for the rest of my life. If it’s for Sherlock, I can do anything._

He sat up straighter on the bed, willing himself into composure he didn’t yet feel. “I’m fine. I’m ready to continue.”

David and Sherlock gaped at him.

“No,” David said. “You’re in no state and I won’t let you.”

“I’d have to agree,” Sherlock said, still looking incredulous.

“I want to get past this.”

“And I’m sure you can. But not tonight. Pushing yourself through this before you’re ready won’t do anyone any favours, least of all him. Go home. Get some rest. If you still want to do this after a few days, come back—I’ll still be here.”

“He’s right.”

“Do you live together?”

Mycroft nodded.

“Good. You shouldn’t be alone tonight, even if you’re convinced you’re past this.”

Mycroft wasn’t convinced he was.

* * *

They went back to see him; Mycroft was determined not to let it go. Sherlock wanted this, and Mycroft was going to make sure he could provide it. After two weeks of multiple sessions, Mycroft put David on retainer. They were going to be at this for a while. It took them four months to get through all the toys; sometimes they only managed one toy over the course of an entire session.

It never really got any easier.

David was right, though: it was the responsible way to learn. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—blindly inflict pain without knowing its effect.

When they’d been through every toy they owned, Mycroft returned to the sex shop and bought the ventilated paddle.

He arranged one more session.

Despite his fears, it was blessedly anticlimactic. He’d become so good at compartmentalising the pain that it was just like any other toy.

* * *

He never fully trusted himself around pain again. He could only remove himself emotionally and endure it.

He couldn’t allow himself to enjoy it like he once had.

Sometimes—when he watched Sherlock in that trance-like, blissful state—he wished he could revisit it, but he wouldn’t give up control like that; the risks weren’t worth it.


	27. Issues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, what you have just isn't enough.

It was rush hour on the tube, and people crammed against each other, heedless of personal space. As undignified as it was, Mycroft had long since got used to it. Despite their generous financial resources, it was wasteful to make the daily journey from Hammersmith into the city by taxi.

Sherlock showed up at his office one afternoon when he was getting ready to leave. Mycroft dragged him onto the crowded tube, ignoring his pleas for a more civilised ride home. After that first experience—with their bodies pressed against each other intimately with no one to care—Sherlock met him at work almost daily.

In truth, it was something of a thrill to be allowed a bit of frottage with his brother while half of London watched.

Sherlock pressed up against his back, looking for all the world like a bored student wishing he were in a seat. The rest of his body was anything _but_ bored. As the train shuddered its way around a corner, jostling everyone in the carriage, Sherlock grasped Mycroft’s hip and pulled him back, rubbing himself against his arse.

“I want you to take me out in public,” he said in a low voice. “Show me off. I want people to see that I belong to you.”

Mycroft felt a little lightheaded, but it wasn’t caused by the crush of people—just one person. One person who knew what damage he could do with a few, well-placed words. Mycroft grasped the pole near the door more tightly, aware of his brother’s breath, warm against his neck.

“Isn’t the collar enough?”

Sherlock wore it almost everywhere now, covered by his scarf, which was light enough to be plausible in all but the warmest London weather. He toyed with it constantly, masking it as a gesture of contemplation, his hand slowly tracing a fan across his neck and face through the concealing material. He wasn’t sure if it was something Sherlock did for himself or if it was designed to drive him out of his mind in inopportune places. Perhaps it was both.

“I had something a little more revealing in mind.”

“Not here,” Mycroft hissed, “are you insane?”

“Of course not here. Just not at home.” Another minute thrust of his hips, and a low huff of amusement as Mycroft shifted in involuntary response.

“Perhaps,” he said.

Inwardly, he winced. _We can’t._

His response must have been good enough, because Sherlock eagerly pressed against him as the train bounced around another corner.

Mycroft prayed he wouldn’t bring up the subject again.

* * *

Sherlock, of course, brought it up again the next day. This time: public sex. Mycroft—while conceptually intrigued by the idea—dismissed each of one Sherlock’s increasingly radical choices of location:

The tube station. (”CCTV.”)

Mycroft’s office. (”Oh, honestly _._ Are you _trying_ to get me sacked?”)

The morgue at Barts. (He’d just stared mutely in response.)

“Fine. Take me out to a club on a leash, then. I’m sure there must be a few where that wouldn’t raise too many eyebrows.”

“No.”

“At least give me a good reason. I’d have thought that was a lot less dangerous than sex on the tube.”

“People might see us.”

“That’s the point. I want people to see us.”

“People from work.”

“Oh.” Sherlock’s jaw set, and he glared at Mycroft. “Worried about your image. Well, I doubt any of your colleagues frequent that sort of club.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. Besides, there are the tabloids.”

“I’ve seen where you work; I’m sure none of the paparazzi will be stalking you for a front page photo op. ‘Minor government official seen at slightly risqué dance club.’ It doesn’t have much shock value.”

Mycroft sighed. “I don’t think you understand, Sherlock. People might _see_ us—people who know we’re related. I agree, no one would give a toss if I showed up at some club with a boyfriend, but when I show up with my brother on a leash, it’s going to be far more newsworthy.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, ‘Oh.’”

Sherlock stood there for a moment, anger radiating from him, before he stormed off to the bedroom and slammed the door.

Until then, Mycroft had fooled himself into thinking he was exempt from Sherlock’s epic tantrums, but the perfect little soap-bubble surrounding their relationship had just popped.

* * *

Sherlock didn’t speak to him for two days.

When Mycroft wasn’t at work, he locked himself in their bedroom. Mycroft slept on the sofa.

Mycroft spent each evening slumped against the bedroom door, pleading with him to come out and talk about it, but all he got in response was silence, the sound of angry pacing, or the occasional slam of something against a wall. Both nights, he cried silently into his pillow, despairing of Sherlock’s refusal to deal with the issue. Both mornings, he found a set of clothes waiting for him outside the bedroom door, presumably to avoid any contact whatsoever.

He came home from work on the third day to find Sherlock lying on the sofa in his dressing gown, sulking.

Mycroft said the only thing he could think of, praying it would be enough: “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t love me,” Sherlock said bitterly, staring at the ceiling.

“That’s not true.”

“You’re ashamed to be seen with me.”

Mycroft paused, choosing his words carefully. “No… we just can’t openly broadcast our relationship. It’s one thing to rub against each other on a crowded tube; it’s completely different to take you to a club on a leash. We have to be _careful_ about this. Mummy would be devastated. I suppose we could even be charged, technically.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Mycroft. No one is going to prosecute that.”

“We’re currently blackmailing Jonathan with assault charges, remember? I think you intimidated him, but I’m sure he’s waiting for any opportunity to drag my name through the dirt, and I’ve no doubt he’d be willing to go to the tabloids. I think incest trumps a minor domestic, as far as they’re concerned. A trial would be irrelevant.”

“Wonderful. Doomed lovers. We finally get to be together, but only on the condition that we never show our love in public. Isn’t there some sort of twisted fairy tale about this?”

“Probably.”

“So what do we do? Spend our entire lives pretending to hate each other?”

“No. I’m just saying we can’t be _obvious_ about being together.” He set his coat and briefcase on the table, unwilling to continue the conversation without a comfortable chair and a drink. “Do you want some scotch?”

“Which one?”

“Lagavulin?”

“All right.”

Sherlock’s voice sounded more resigned than bitter. It was a start. He handed him the glass and sat next to him; Sherlock lifted his legs up so they could rest in his lap.

“It’s so unfair.”

“I know,” Mycroft said. He stared into space, trailing his fingers over Sherlock’s calves, absently processing the texture of the silk dressing gown while he thought. They both sipped at their drinks.

“So what do we do about it?”

_Escape to some liberal-minded island paradise under assumed names? No. And probably best not to bring it up, even jokingly._

“I’m not sure there’s much we can do. We have each other, isn’t that enough?”

“Oh! We could ask David! It wouldn’t be public, but it’d still be a thrill. We could get him to watch.”

_And… apparently having each other isn’t enough._

It was difficult not to take “Let’s involve someone else in our sex life” personally, especially when _you_ were perfectly content, but he didn’t want to argue the point. Not at the moment.

To make matters worse, David was the only person they’d forged a close friendship with, and losing that would be miserable. He’d been coming over for Sunday roast for almost two months now. Other nights, too. He didn’t have a partner; Mycroft was an incredible cook; they could all freely discuss sex: it had evolved so nicely.

Late nights with him discussing the realities of professional domination had provided a sort of instant intimacy to their friendship. He’d been frank with them about his personal life: a breakup initiated by a lover who didn’t want to share him with his clients—even in a professional capacity. They, of course, had been less frank about their own history. While they hadn’t lied, they hadn’t been forthcoming with details, saying only that they’d known each other from years ago, and recently started their relationship. But, short of telling him about their familial bond, they’d shared so much with each other, and the three of them had become very close.

David provided a touchstone of normality—of the outside world—for Mycroft; a steady footing in his all-consuming relationship with Sherlock.

Mycroft didn’t want to give that up. Or risk giving it up.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Why not? If anyone would go for it, he would. He’s a sex worker, for Christ’s sakes.”

Mycroft groaned. “And we are his friends—not his clients—and he’s not that sort of sex worker.”

Sherlock glared at him, and Mycroft felt the entire conversation veering out of control, heading towards another epic sulk.

_I can’t take another two days of silence, even if giving in to him is wrong._

“All right, we can ask him. As _delicately_ as possible. If fact, I’ll do the asking.”

_That way, if I screw this up, I’ll only have myself to blame._


	28. Question

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft asks a question and gets an unexpected answer.

They waited until after dinner; there seemed to be no point in spoiling a good meal, after all.

Despite Sherlock’s belief that David would be fine with the idea, Mycroft felt the panic rise in his chest. _Is this worth the risk?_

He took a deep breath. _Yes._ Ultimately, Sherlock was worth anything: even their friendship with David; even involving someone else in their sex life. If this was what it took to preserve their relationship, he’d do it. He tried not to focus on how deeply _dysfunctional_ that notion was.

Sherlock had done his best to remain calm while he waited for Mycroft to broach the issue, but his impatience was obvious: almost every word out of his mouth was accompanied by wild hand gestures.

“Okay. What’s with you? You’ve been like this all evening.” David said, relaxing into a chair with a slice of Battenberg cake.

Sherlock looked at Mycroft, expectantly. David followed his gaze. “What is it?”

“I… we… have a very odd request. One you could find offensive.” He placed his hands on his thighs to stop them from shaking.

Then he paused. They’d made a huge mistake. The obvious answer to Sherlock’s need to ‘show off’ was to go to a club. David would want to know why that wasn’t an option.

_Oh._

_Bloody hell._

_That_ was going to take the conversation to places he didn’t want to go.

“Actually, never mind. Please, forget I brought it up.”

“ _Mycroft,_ ” Sherlock whined.

“No, come on. You can’t say something like that and then stop. I’m dying to know what’s going to offend me,” David said, with a bit of a laugh.

It seemed better _(better?)_ to tell him the nature of their relationship before asking for his participation; to admit to it afterwards seemed, well, like they’d been hiding something. Which, of course, they had.

“Well, there’s something we need to tell you before I get to that.”

Sherlock’s eyes got almost impossibly wide.

David put his cake back on the plate and sat forward in his chair. “Oh?”

“We have a rather unique relationship.”

Sherlock tried to look nonchalant, but his hand gripped the edge of the sofa so tightly his knuckles were white.

David sat there, silently. Waiting. Looking intensely curious.

Mycroft hoped the earth would swallow him up so he wouldn’t have to continue. He clenched his thumbs inside his fists, and pulled against them so hard that his joints hurt.

“We’re—”, he closed his eyes, “—brothers.”

“Bloody hell!” David exclaimed, with an outburst of incredulous laughter and wide-eyed amazement. “Really?”

The laughter had to be a positive sign—incredulous or not. He nodded, as did Sherlock.

“I knew there was something odd about you two, but I’d never have guessed that!”

“Well, that’s reassuring,” Mycroft said, with a weak grin. “It’s obviously not something we tell people. Anyone. Ever.”

“So, why tell me, then?”

“You’re not morally outraged?”

David shrugged. “No. Why should I be? No one is being abused. You’re both consenting adults and you’re clearly in love. Trust me, with some of the relationships I’ve seen, this doesn’t even begin to register as ‘fucked up’. ‘Interesting’, perhaps. Just because they can prosecute you for something doesn’t make it _wrong_. Hell, being gay was illegal for years, and with the Spanner case, most of what I do is _still_ technically illegal. I’m just careful to keep quiet about it.”

Mycroft relaxed back into his chair, relieved the whole thing had gone so well.

_Oh._

Half of it had gone well. The prosecutable half. He wondered if their relationship would ‘register as fucked up’ once he got to the other half.

“So why _did_ you tell me? Seems like a pretty big risk on your part. I’m not going to say anything, obviously.”

“Well…” Mycroft gave him a pained expression. “Part of it is that it’s a pretty lonely place to be. We can’t tell anyone or even be seen together as a couple.”

David gave a nod of understanding. “Yeah, I’ve been there. I don’t make friends with clients, and I can’t make a lot of close friends when I have to hide what I do.”

“So what are you doing _here_?” Sherlock interrupted. “Not that we’re complaining.”

“I dunno, really. I saw both of you so much it sort of bled over into that realm, and it was a nice change.”

Perhaps he could let the other half of this drop onto the conversational floor without David noticing. Suddenly, he didn’t want to risk David’s friendship, after all.

“So, what’s the other part?”

_Damn._

“I’m honestly not sure it’s appropriate…”

“Outing yourself as incestuous probably isn’t, either.”

“All right. Point taken.” Another deep breath. “Sherlock would like to be ‘shown off’. As a sub. For obvious reasons, we don’t want to show up as a couple at any of the clubs. We were wondering if you’d be willing—”, he winced, “—to observe.” He shrank back defensively into the chair, anticipating the inevitable rejection like a blow to the face.

Sherlock had no such reservations and leaned forward, eagerly awaiting David’s response.

“You want me to watch?” His tone was one of quiet disbelief.

“Um… yes.”

David sat back in his seat and gave a short, easy laugh. “Well, you two are full of surprises tonight.”

They both waited tensely as he looked at them.

“I make it a rule never to play with clients, but at this point, you’re not clients.”

“So that’s a yes?” Sherlock asked, trying to sound calm and failing miserably.

Another quiet laugh. “Hell, yeah. I’m not gonna lie—I enjoyed it every time you took a beating from him. You both clearly got off on it, and watching that in a non-professional capacity would be my pleasure.”

Mycroft sighed with relief, while Sherlock just beamed.

* * *

David was helping Mycroft with the dishes, and Sherlock had gone off to the toilet. It was the first time they’d had alone since their discussion.

“Is this the reason you always let him have his way?” David asked, point blank.

“What?” Mycroft was confused and a bit taken aback by David’s bluntness. “No. Well, not because we’re related. It’s because I’ve loved him for so long and now I finally have a chance—I don’t want to ruin it. Christ. Is it that obvious?”

“Very. Look, I know it’s none of my business, but you should consider taking more control. He’s a sub—a pushy sub, granted. He needs structure, and if you don’t give it to him, he’s eventually going to get bored and wander off, no matter how much you bend over backwards to please him.”

The toilet flushed, and David hurried to finish their conversation.

“You have to make sure things are about both of you, not just him, or you’ll end up a basket-case, and he’ll be insufferable. No offence.”

“None taken.” It was the some of the best advice he’d ever been given. “Thank you,” he said, placing a grateful hand on his shoulder.

David smiled. “My pleasure. We’ll make a respectful sub of him yet.”

Sherlock walked back in and leaned against the kitchen counter with an easy confidence. “So, when are we going to do this? It’s still pretty early.”

“Mycroft and I will arrange something; he’ll be the one ‘showing you off’, after all. I’m sure he’ll want to ensure you’re displayed to _full_ advantage.” David managed to make it sound both forceful and utterly salacious at the same time.

Sherlock stood, the relaxation in his body gone, replaced by a shifting nervousness. “Don’t I get a say in this?”

“I’m sure he’ll ask for your input when he needs it. Now, there are some things I need to discuss with Mycroft. Finish off the dishes and then bring us some tea, please.” His voice was calm and pleasant, but it brooked absolutely _no_ argument.

Sherlock gaped at them, dumbfounded.

“Will that be a problem, Sherlock?”

“N…no.”

Mycroft had never seen him look so confused in his life.

They went back to the main room, keeping their voices low enough that Sherlock wouldn’t be able to follow their conversation.

“So, what does he do all day? Does he work?”

“No… he has some personal science experiments, and he reads a lot. Or wanders around London, observing.”

“Observing?”

“Deducing. Figuring out people’s lives from the scuff marks on their shoes and the way they fold their newspapers. That sort of thing. It keeps his mind busy.”

“It’s your call obviously—and his—but I think he needs a part-time job.”

“Oh?”

“I need a houseboy, a couple days a week. Nothing sexual: some light cleaning, doing the washing, a bit of work in the kitchen sometimes.”

Mycroft smiled nervously. “I’m not sure he’s going to go for that idea.”

“Well, here’s the thing. You know all that furniture in my playroom? It’s not something you can go out and order; it’s all custom-made by a friend of mine. Perhaps if Sherlock were willing to help, my friend might be willing to make a few more pieces. As a favour.”

“Now that,” Mycroft said with a wide grin, “might make all the difference.”

* * *

They all agreed on the terms. Sherlock would act as David’s houseboy from 10am until 5pm on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. In return, for every two weeks of service, David would commission an item of bondage furniture from his friend. At the end of the first two weeks—if Sherlock performed as required—David would arrange with Mycroft for him to be ‘shown off’.

Sherlock would be expected to arrive on time, perform all his duties politely and efficiently, and generally not drive anyone mad. That included Mycroft, which meant he wasn’t allowed to complain without due cause. David would report any infringements to Mycroft, who would then mete out whatever he considered to be an appropriate punishment.

Sherlock wasn’t thrilled about all the conditions, but he did concede that they were fair. And he really, _really_ wanted the bondage furniture.

* * *

Sherlock had never worked a day in his life. Growing up, the staff at the manor took care of everything. At school and university, the students were similarly coddled. When Sherlock moved into his flat, he drew on his funds to make life as easy as possible—sending the washing to the dry cleaners; ordering takeaway; hiring someone to come in and clean when things got unbearable.

When he thought about it, he realised the number of times he’d done the dishes—in his life—didn’t even reach double digits.

Someone else had always done the work. All of it.

He wasn’t entirely sure how he’d managed to avoid it. Apparently, throwing money at things was a fairly efficient solution to the problem. Now, David was effectively throwing that money at _him_ , in the form of lovely, custom bondage furniture that Mycroft would use to take him apart. That made getting up at 8am much more compelling.

And he couldn’t say he wasn’t learning things. Who knew you weren’t supposed to put woollen jumpers in the dryer? Everyone except him, apparently. 10 stripes with the cane.

He hated the cane.

It was one of the few forms of ‘punishment’ that actually delivered on the term. Unfortunately for his arse, David had taught Mycroft how to use it perfectly.

He learnt how to read the labels on clothes.

He learnt how _(God help him)_ to iron a fitted bed-sheet. _And_ make the bed. He was sure he’d never done that.

Being polite. That was a hard one. He didn’t _intend_ to be rude; it just seemed that his brand of humour didn’t mesh with everyone else’s. He decided it would be easier on his arse if he just kept his mouth shut. At least while he was on duty.

David was surprisingly easy to work for. He never got angry about mistakes; he just pointed them out, made him redo the task, and contacted Mycroft regarding the punishment.

There were a lot of things to learn. Luckily, he was a fucking genius. Once he screwed something up, it never happened again. His intelligence, and the cane, saw to that.

It took four days—there were a _lot_ of things to learn—until he made it through a day with no blemishes on his record.

That night, Mycroft was waiting for him when he got home. This time, _not_ with the cane. He lounged on the sofa, dressed in—oddly—slacks. He must have got home from work early.

“I hear congratulations are in order.”

Sherlock smiled. He was actually quite pleased with himself. There had been a near miss when he’d been ironing one of David’s dress shirts and had to answer the phone, but he’d caught it just before it left a scorch mark. He was getting pretty good at the whole ‘houseboy’ thing. And, while he’d never admit it to Mycroft, there was something oddly satisfying about it.

“I thought I’d take you out to dinner, and then for a little surprise. Only if you’re up for it, of course.”

“What sort of surprise?”

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it? Nothing you have to dress for.”

“All right. Do I get to pick the food?”

“Of course.”

“Thai, then. There’s a new place in the West End that’s supposed to be good.”

“That’ll be convenient.”

“Will it?”

Mycroft just smiled. “Do you want to sit down for a bit before we leave? I know you’ve had a long day.”

Sherlock frowned. “Why are you being so… odd?”

“I’m just trying to be considerate.”

“No, it’ll be gone six by the time we get there; we should go. I’ll phone ahead and see if we can get a table.”

They took the tube.

It was still rush hour.

He wondered how much Mycroft would let him get away with. If anything. They hadn’t taken the tube together since their big falling-out about the club, and to be honest, the whole dynamic between them seemed to have changed a bit since David had been to dinner. Not in a bad way… Mycroft seemed to be on surer footing than he had been in months. Less tentative. It was nice.

It wasn’t very crowded when they first got on—going against traffic to get back into the city—but by the time they reached South Kensington, the cars started to fill up. And _Mycroft_ pushed up against _him_.

“My…”

“Quiet.”

Mycroft placed something in the pocket of his coat.

He reached in and pulled out a smooth, black leather cord. No, not just a cord, a necklace with a clasp. _Oh._ He wasn’t allowed to wear his collar at work, or when he had to remove his coat and scarf somewhere. _This, though…_

He turned to look at Mycroft, who wore a slight, knowing smile.

“Something a little more subtle. But still mine.”

He ran the supple cord through this fingers. It wasn’t the type of thing he’d normally pick out, but he’d wear rhinestones if Mycroft asked him to: his brother—in his own, very subtle way—was showing him off in public. He’d made the effort to go out and buy this for him, both as a token of love and as a means to heal the slight rift between them—the rift, he noted, that _he’d_ caused. He should be the one making a noble, loving gesture here, not Mycroft. He wanted to turn around and hug him; kiss him; thank him for putting up with his childish behaviour.

He grabbed Mycroft’s hand and squeezed it tightly, hoping it conveyed at least some of those things. Then he mouthed “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Mycroft whispered back, and gave him an incandescent smile.

He passed the cord back to Mycroft. “Would you?”

“My pleasure.”

The crush of people afforded some privacy as Mycroft deftly fastened the cord around his neck.

“Mine,” Mycroft said, quietly enough that no one else would hear him above the din of the train wheels.

Sherlock’s body tingled with warmth as his brother pressed against him. “Yours,” he replied.


	29. Trousers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets his surprise.

The Thai restaurant was a short walk from Soho. And the sex shop. His brother, of course, figured it out long before they got there.

“More toys? I thought we had all of them by now.”

“Not exactly. Wait and see.”

The shopkeeper laughed to see them back. “Keep this up and you’ll be regulars.” Mycroft grinned and headed towards the racks of clothing, and other things that could only marginally be described as clothing. Mycroft flipped through a rack of leather trousers to find the smaller, tighter sizes.

Sherlock rubbed the leather between his fingers. Buttery soft. Wondered what it would feel like against his skin.

Mycroft handed him a pair and headed over to the section containing an assortment of leather and chrome straps.

“You need a harness to go with them.” He selected a simple x-shaped chest harness, with straps that met in both the front and back, in an O-ring at the centre. Sherlock took it from him eagerly, holding it up to his chest to get an idea of how it would fit once it was on.

“Your fashion sense just leapt forward by about a century,” Sherlock said quietly. “And I must say, I definitely approve.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Can we try these on?” he asked the owner.

“As long as he keeps his pants on with the trousers—and no funny business in the dressing rooms, or you’ll get me shut down.”

The pants were ridiculously tight, and showed off Sherlock’s generous arse perfectly. The soft, slightly stretchy leather allowed for a snug fit, even around his calves.

Mycroft buckled the leather harness into place and gave an evaluating tug on one of the rings. Sherlock jerked forward, the snug straps providing plenty of leverage. He gave Mycroft a look of pure lust, but his brother only returned it with a chaste kiss.

“Perfect. All right, get dressed. There’s one other thing I need.” As much as he wanted to watch Sherlock take those trousers off, it would only arouse him further. He wanted to get home where they could properly indulge themselves. His one other purchase: a sturdy leather leash. He watched Sherlock’s face light up when he took it from the display.

* * *

Mycroft settled himself into the chair in their bedroom as Sherlock put the bag on the bed.

“Put them on.”

Sherlock hastily complied. The anticipation had both of them hard—something Sherlock hadn’t had to contend with in the shop.

“Um…” he said, trying and failing to zip them up over his erect cock. “I’m not sure this is going to work.”

“I am.” Mycroft said. He walked over, grabbed his arse, and then palmed him firmly—so firmly it was probably uncomfortable, but Sherlock just groaned. Holding him in place, he said, “Now zip them up.” As he'd predicted, it worked. He stood back to look, and the sight made him weak: the soft leather clearly outlined the bulge and head of his brother’s cock. The effect was obscene. Deliciously obscene.

Sherlock rubbed his hand across his crotch and sighed. Mycroft gently batted it away. “Did I say you could touch? This is all mine right now. You can look, though; go over and see how desperate you are.”

While Sherlock admired himself in the mirror—and he did look spectacular, with the tight leather encasing his long legs and highlighting the pale skin of his bare feet—Mycroft fastened the harness across his chest. When he was done, he toyed with the thin leather cord around Sherlock’s neck. “Do you like your daytime collar?”

Sherlock turned back to him and beamed. “I love it, thank you. I’m sorry I was such a prat.”

“Apology accepted. Now, I’m afraid these trousers are going to require a bit of effort on my part.”

Sherlock gave him a confused look.

“I need to find out how much harder I can spank that lovely arse of yours before you beg.” He gave him a salacious grin. “What toy shall we start with, hm? I’ll let you choose.”

* * *

The answer to the first question, Sherlock decided, was ‘quite a lot’.

They started with the plain wooden paddle, and Mycroft eventually stopped—on the theory that if the impacts got any louder, the neighbours would call the police.

For almost any toy they used on the leather trousers, it seemed the bark was definitely worse than the bite. It let Sherlock enjoy the sensation of forceful, almost brutal contact without the intense pain that would normally accompany it. Not that he’d avoid that, necessarily, but this was a much more hedonistic type of ‘punishment’—blows that left more of a dull ache than any real pain—and he was thoroughly getting off on it. Bent over the edge of the bed, each impact forced him across the mattress, sending shock-waves of pleasure through both his arse and his cock. It was like drinking slowly but steadily over the course of an entire evening, where you worked up a slow, burning buzz that made you giddy.

By the time they’d gone through the paddle, the tawse, and a downright thrashing with the riding crop, the only thing he was begging for was a good fuck.

“Perhaps we should have got the chaps instead,” Mycroft said with a chuckle. Those had an open arse and crotch—basically trouser legs held up with a belt. “Of course, then I wouldn’t have been able to beat you like that.”

Sherlock shuddered to think what the session would have done to him without the leather protecting his skin. He wouldn’t be able to sit for a week. Intellectually, he knew the pain would be almost unbearable, but the _idea_ of it made him even more aroused.

Mycroft pulled him to his feet with the back ring of the chest harness, then he grabbed Sherlock’s leather-clad erection and pulled him backwards so his glowing arse rubbed against his own full cock.

“One day, we’ll have a place where you can make as much noise as you want, and I’m going to thrash you so hard you’ll scream. Would you like that?”

“Oh, _fuck_ , yes.” He meant it. He didn’t know if he could take it, but he wanted Mycroft to try.

“I’ll take you apart and make you beg for mercy. It’ll clear all the noise from your mind and all you’ll be able to focus on is the rain of fire on those lovely cheeks of yours, and I’ll see how prettily you bruise. I’d have to restrain you; you wouldn’t manage to stay put on your own. I wouldn’t want you flinching away and putting my aim off. No, I’d have to tie you down before I started so you’d be completely immobile.”

Mycroft’s voice was rough and his breathing was just as laboured as Sherlock’s; they were both getting off on this fantasy.

“We should get that padded bench so I can stretch you out along it. Once I’ve attached the cuffs, I’ll get a wide leather strap that I can fasten around your waist, so you can’t go anywhere, but you’ll want to stay there and take it, won’t you? Present your arse to me and be my whipping boy?”

“Oh, God, Mycroft…” If his brother didn’t shut up, he was going to pull off his trousers and present his arse right then and there.

“You’d be so sore afterwards; you wouldn’t even want clothes against your skin, but you’d still beg me to fuck you, wouldn’t you? Plead with me to take that pretty hole of yours even though every touch of my hips would make you scream. I’d do it, you know: do it if you begged for it. I’d stuff your mouth with a gag, and then I’d stuff my thick cock into your hole, and dig my fingers into your bruised arse and ride you hard. Then once I’d spent myself inside you, I’d thrash you some more until I was ready to take you again. You’d be my little come-slut.”

 _‘Come-slut.’ Fucking hell._ Sherlock knew without a trace of doubt that those two words had _never_ left his brother’s mouth in that order before, and it put him over the edge. He pulled away from Mycroft’s grasp and his fingers flew to his trousers, pulling desperately to take them off so Mycroft could fuck him. “Please, just _fuck_ me.”

Mycroft swatted him on the arse the moment the leather was around his thighs. “Don’t be pushy,” he said with a grin, as he quickly divested himself of his own clothes. Slacks were easier to take off than tight leather trousers, and Mycroft finished long before Sherlock, who hopped around for balance as he tried to remove them without sitting down. Mycroft, managing to look amused, aroused, and controlled—all at the same time—took pity on him and steadied his shoulder.

Sherlock was fairly certain he just looked desperate. He certainly _felt_ desperate. The second he’d removed the confounding trousers, he stood in front of Mycroft and did his best to convey every ounce of it. “Please?”

Mycroft pulled him in for a greedy kiss. “Good boy,” he said in a rough voice as he took hold of Sherlock’s hair and sucked a bruise into his neck. “Very polite. Now bend over the bed and we’ll see about your reward.”

* * *

It was a hell of a reward for both of them.

They’d had sex a few times since Sherlock had started his ‘job’, but Mycroft kept dominance out of it. Enough things were changing in that respect, and he didn’t want to overwhelm either of them. This though—with the trousers, and the thrashing, and the dirty talk, and the spectacular sex afterwards—it made him remember just how much he enjoyed that aspect of it.

“God, that was incredible,” came a ragged voice from next to him.

And apparently, Sherlock enjoyed it, too.

They’d both collapsed onto the bed in sheer exhaustion afterwards, and they lay there staring at the ceiling. Mycroft reached out to grasp Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock squeezed it in return. “Thanks. For the trousers, for this.” He paused. “For suggesting I do the houseboy thing.”

Mycroft looked over at him in surprise. He hadn’t expected Sherlock to admit to enjoying it, or even to ‘not hating’ it. “Really? David tells me you’re doing a wonderful job.”

Sherlock ran his thumb across Mycroft’s fingers. “It’s more satisfying than I thought it would be. Occupying my conscious mind with repetitive tasks seems to improve my subconscious abilities. While I was ironing today, I figured out how to prevent that chemical instability I was telling you about. _Ironing._ Can you believe it?”

“The solution to world peace could be found if more heads of state did their own ironing.”

Sherlock burst into laughter.

“What? I wasn’t joking,” Mycroft said, trying not to laugh and failing.

After their laughter petered out into contented sighs, he leaned over, gazed into his brother’s gorgeous eyes, and kissed him. “I love you, you know.” He hadn’t consciously meant to phrase it like that. He hadn’t _meant_ to bring this up at all, but some part of him needed to.

Sherlock frowned. “Yes, I know. I love you too, My. Is everything all right?”

Mycroft flopped back onto his back and let out a long breath. “I’m worried that I’m not enough for you—that one day, you’ll get bored and leave.” David’s words had haunted him since their discussion, and he hadn’t been sure that putting more structure into their relationship would completely solve the problem. “Is sharing you going to fix that?”

The fact that he didn’t get an instant, placating denial—that Sherlock gave his answer careful thought before responding—relieved him. ‘Don’t be silly’ would have made things worse.

“I don’t want to involve anyone else _emotionally_. I’m not looking for a relationship with David: I already have one that I’m guarding rather jealously.” He squeezed Mycroft’s hand and brought it up to his mouth for a kiss. “I don’t consider this sharing, and I don’t want to share _you_ , either. He’s just another set of eyes, hands, whatever. It’s sex, not love. You’re the one that matters.”

It was a simple but revelatory concept. He’d always paired the two—he suspected most people did. _Leave it to Sherlock to disregard social norms and come up with something that makes much more sense._

“Besides,” Sherlock added, “I know I was the one to suggest it, but you have as much say in this as I do. If it bothers you, we won’t do it.”

He was still processing the idea, letting it sink into his bones a little. “No, I think I’m all right with it. I’d… I’d presumed it to be a failure on my part. Separating the physical and the emotional aspects of a relationship hadn’t occurred to me.”

“It wasn’t something I consciously _did_. For me, they’ve always been separate _._ A few people in school satisfied me physically, but no one else has ever satisfied me emotionally. Why would they? I wasn’t in love with them. I doubt I could ever love anyone else.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said, and kissed him again. The separation made sense. He’d done the same thing with Colin, he supposed, but he’d considered that to be more of a ‘paid transaction’ than a relationship.

“For me, the idea of involving other people is just arousing. It’s not much different than having a new toy.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s completely inappropriate comparison of people to riding crops. “Please don’t tell David he’s your new sex toy; he might take it the wrong way,” he said lightly.

Sherlock smiled and grabbed some tissues to wipe the sticky mess from his stomach, then he curled around Mycroft, the harness still on his chest. “Don’t wait to bring this up next time, hm? It’s too important.”

“Mm. Sorry, love. I won’t; I promise.”

Sherlock nuzzled closer to him. “Good.”


	30. Expectations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets to show off his new outfit.

David arrived precisely at six. They’d selected a day when Sherlock had to work in order to minimise the amount of nervous distraction on both their parts. It didn’t really help: Sherlock managed to drop one of David’s plates (replaceable), and Mycroft spent half of a budget meeting thinking only about Sherlock’s leather-clad arse.

Sherlock had less than half an hour to shower and change. He barely finished in time; Mycroft was showing David into the flat just as he walked out of the bedroom dressed in his leather trousers and harness.

“Hello, sir.”

“You’re not at work, Sherlock; you can call me David. Unless you’re on your knees, or Mycroft instructs you otherwise,” he added with a grin.

“I’m sorry about the plate.”

“I know. I’m sure Mycroft will make sure you’re disciplined for it—in fact, I’m hoping to watch.”

“Oh, you most certainly may,” Mycroft said from the kitchen. “Something to drink?”

“Coffee?” said David.

“Of course. Sherlock?”

He wasn’t asking if Sherlock wanted any; it was a request for him to prepare it. He responded without hesitation and Mycroft joined David in the other room.

“You’ve done wonders,” David said, tipping his head towards the kitchen.

“I think we probably both have. It was extremely insightful on your part.”

Sherlock returned with coffee for David and tea for Mycroft. Mycroft had instructed him to be in role as his submissive for the entire evening, unless told otherwise, and Sherlock presented it to them with deference, eyes lowered.

“Thank you, Sherlock. You may kneel.”

He took his place next to Mycroft’s chair in the required position: on his knees with his back straight and his hands on his thighs.

“James brought the grid by last night. It’s really a beautiful piece of furniture, thank you.”

David smiled. “Sherlock earned every well-oiled rung of it.”

They’d set it up in the bedroom. Sherlock hadn’t even been allowed to touch it: it was for tonight.

“Sherlock, please give us five minutes.”

He nodded and went to the bedroom.

They’d already discussed their ground rules the previous evening. Mycroft had suggested, much to Sherlock’s surprise, that any sort of sexual activity with David be allowed, if it ‘went there’. They had their safewords, and Mycroft believed he’d internalised the separation between physical and emotional connections enough to try it. He wanted to try it, actually—wanted to see whether watching Sherlock with someone else would result in jealousy or arousal… or both. Now it was time to have that discussion with David. He’d asked Sherlock to leave in order to preserve some sense of uncertainty and sexual tension.

“So, how’s this going to work, then?”

“I’m going to punish him for the plate, then flog him for a while on the new grid. What happens then is up to you. We’ve discussed it at great length: Sherlock’s differentiation between sexual and emotional relationships is very clear. Traditionally, mine hasn’t been, but I’d like to try. We’ve agreed that you should be given full access to him—whether that involves simply watching or having your way with him is up to you.”

David gaped. “Holy shit. Really?” He downed the rest of his coffee in one go. “Fuck. Um. Well. I hadn’t expected that.”

“It’s entirely your decision, of course. The decision on our side was made last night after a lot of consideration. Safewords all around, of course, so if any of us find it disturbing, we can call it off.”

“Christ. How do you feel about all this? I mean, I know you’ve said you’re okay with it, but…”

“Surprisingly, fine. The idea of _allowing_ him to be with someone—and ultimately being in control of that interaction—doesn’t threaten me. And it’s somewhat arousing.” He admitted the last part with a downward glance.

David chuckled.

“Well, okay. Um. If you’re sure, I’m certainly game.”

Mycroft grinned. “I’m sure he’ll be excited to hear that—not that I’m going to tell him. Obviously this was contingent on your agreement, and we decided it should be a surprise. He doesn’t know whether to expect quiet observation or a rough face-fucking.”

He nearly choked. “Jesus! Since when do you use words like that?”

“He gets off on filthy language. I’ve picked up a bit of a taste for it, but only in relevant situations, of course.”

David laughed, incredulously. “Oh, of course.”

“So, we’re in agreement then?”

“Definitely.”

“Wonderful. I’ll go and get him.”

He went back to the bedroom and found Sherlock kneeling by the bed, looking stunning in the leather trousers and harness. And bare feet. For some reason, he found the combination of the black trousers and his bare feet to be incredibly sexy. He ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and then pulled his head back so Sherlock could see his face. “Such a good boy when you want to be, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

He retrieved the collar and fastened it around his neck, then clipped on the leash. It was the first time they’d used it—Mycroft had made him wait until tonight.

“Now,” he said, giving a firm yank on the length of leather in his hand, “you _will_ behave. Any insubordination will result in the immediate end of the session. Get on your hands and knees. You’re going to crawl out there like you’re my pet. You’d do anything to please me, wouldn’t you—just like a puppy?”

“Yes, sir.” He was already on all fours.

“Mm, I thought so, you little slut.” From behind, he reached between Sherlock’s legs and palmed his cock and balls. Hard as a rock.

Mycroft retrieved the cane, then tugged on the leash. Sherlock followed him, crawling out into the living room.

David gasped as Sherlock entered. “That’s a sight,” he said with awe, or perhaps just lust, in his voice. His eyes roamed appreciatively across the harness and trousers and he shifted in his chair.

“Unfortunately, being pretty doesn’t mean he can do the dishes. He’ll be getting five with the cane for that, unless you’d like to add more.”

“Make it seven. It was my _favourite_ plate.”

Mycroft stifled a chuckle. Everyone involved knew it was a generic piece of replaceable china, but this was far more entertaining.

“Very well. Sherlock, take down your trousers.”

His erect cock sprang free as he did so.

“He gets off on the idea of a caning?”

“The idea of it, perhaps, but I doubt he’ll be as hard after he actually receives it. It’s one of the few things he truly hates.”

“Good. I’d hate to think we’ve been reinforcing negative behaviour.” David saw the plug in Sherlock’s arse and grinned. “How often does he get to wear that?”

“If he’s good, I let him wear it to work.” He’d put it in him that morning, in fact. If the evening ended in sex, he wanted him stretched and ready.

“No wonder he drops the plates. I’d be distracted too if I had something like that rubbing on me all day.”

“It’s still no excuse. He needs to learn discipline, after all. Ready, Sherlock?”

“Yes, sir.”

He delivered five strokes quickly and without ceremony. Sherlock gritted his teeth the entire time and didn’t breathe until they were finished. He slumped a bit once they were done.

“Posture.”

He straightened back into position.

“David, would you like to administer the last two?”

“Oh, it would be my pleasure.”

He gave him two more—harder than the ones Mycroft had dealt—raising welts across his arse. Sherlock closed his eyes tightly against the pain, but didn’t cry out.

“Good boy,” Mycroft soothed, running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “You can put your trousers back on now.”

He gingerly pulled them back up, careful not to rub the soft leather against the marks. The intense pain had softened his erection considerably, and he tucked himself back into the trousers without a problem.

“Right. David, if you’d like to come with us to the bedroom?”

Sherlock crawled behind Mycroft, his sore arse making him far more tentative than he had been previously. David followed behind them.

“Hell of a view. You’re very lucky, Mycroft.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”


	31. Permutations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally gets a chance to show off for David.

Sherlock entered their bedroom on his hands and knees, the black leather of his trousers moving easily against the wooden floor. He cast a fond look back at Mycroft, and then up at the new bondage grid, which rested at a slight angle against the only empty wall of their bedroom. The top, secured firmly with bolts, almost reached the ceiling. It was a much better payment for Sherlock’s services than money—they had plenty of that. Custom bondage furniture was a little harder to come by, and far more prized.

David followed them in, and closed the door behind them.

Mycroft grabbed the ring on the back of Sherlock’s chest harness and pulled him to a standing position, then he caressed his cheek. “You did so well with the caning, love,” he murmured, “now it’s time for your reward; you get to play with your new toy.” _That would be the grid,_ he thought with a smile, _not David. Not yet, at least._ “Should I restrain you, or can you take it without writhing out of position?”

They both knew what ‘it’ was: a suede flogger that was Sherlock’s favourite implement by far. It was the least painful of their toys, and no matter how long or hard Mycroft used it, Sherlock could never get enough. Its mild sting led to a heady arousal, and a session with it almost inevitably led to some sort of sex afterwards.

“I don’t need the restraints, thank you.”

Mycroft made a mental note to try them anyway at some point, just to see how well they worked with the grid. It would be quite a sight, to see the dark leather cuffs binding him to the wooden rack. The thigh cuffs they hadn’t had a chance to use yet, perhaps: those would keep Sherlock from squirming away.

“Very well. Lean against it, back towards me with your legs apart, and grab the bars.” Sherlock was familiar with its use from the one at David’s, of course. The angled position allowed him to relax against it completely—something he was unable to do when he braced himself against the wall for their usual flogging sessions.

He sighed as he settled into position, almost as if he was relaxing onto a sofa.

“Comfortable?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“David, make yourself comfortable, in whatever way you’d like to define that.”

He laughed and took a seat in the chair. “Thank you.”

“Ready, then?”

Sherlock nodded, and Mycroft picked up the flogger. He trailed its soft leather tails across Sherlock’s shoulders and back, and his brother shivered. “You’re always ready for this, aren’t you, my love?”

“Mm,” Sherlock said, leaning into it and inhaling the scent of the leather. “Always.”

Mycroft started in on his upper back, the gentle blows of the flexible suede more like a caress. He slowly worked up to harder strokes; even at the higher intensity, it was nothing like the burning sting of the cane.

Sherlock stretched his back out with a blissful sigh as his brother worked him over. Mycroft kept at it for quite some time, with no complaint from Sherlock, until his arm started to get tired. He turned to David. “Would you like a turn?”

“I’d love to.”

Before handing over the toy, he stood next to his brother and ran his hand across the glowing pink skin of his back. “Enjoying yourself?”

Sherlock nodded.

Mycroft placed his hand between the bars of the grid and rubbed gently at the large bulge in Sherlock’s trousers. “Mm, I see you are.” He kissed him on the shoulder and handed David the flogger. He mouthed the word ‘same’ to him, and David nodded. He didn’t want to knock Sherlock out of the good place he was in with unexpected or jarring pain.

Mycroft observed as David continued what he’d started, using his skilled hands to take Sherlock apart even more. Sherlock rolled his head back with pleasure and moaned.

“All right, gorgeous, I think you’re enjoying yourself a little too much. I have other plans for you before you get too blissed-out. Get on your knees.” Mycroft tried to sound stern, but the fondness in his voice betrayed him.

Sherlock didn’t care what his tone was. At the words, he turned and dropped to his knees, the look in his eyes one of pure hunger. He licked his lips.

Mycroft regained his composure. This time, his voice dropped into in the low, dark whisper that always made Sherlock weak. “So you want to show off, do you?”

He nodded.

“Want David to see how well you can suck cock?”

“Yes, sir,” he managed.

“Would you like to watch, David? Or would you rather see for yourself? I’m sure the little slut would be only too eager to show you.” He glanced at Sherlock. “Wouldn’t you, love?”

Sherlock looked back at him with unbridled lust and whimpered. Mycroft grinned at him; it had been so much more fun like this, leaving him wondering about David’s participation until the last moment.

“Well, since you’re giving me the choice…” David pulled his t-shirt from his jeans and took it off, exposing a lightly-tanned, well-toned body. He walked over and stood in front of Sherlock, inches from his face. He unbuckled his belt. Slowly.

Sherlock watched David intensely, his breath shallow. Mycroft watched both of them, the tableau unfolding before him far hotter than he’d imagined it would be.

David either had amazing self-restraint or was one hell of a tease, because he took his time undoing his jeans. Before he pulled them down, he tipped Sherlock’s head back and looked at him, then he turned to Mycroft. “What’s his gag reflex like?”

“Not perfect, but not bad.”

“Can I come down his throat?”

“Be my guest.” Their conversational tone belied the buzzing undercurrent of sexual tension. It felt odd to give someone else permission to use Sherlock like this. Powerful. It was far more arousing then he’d expected. He’d been a little worried about this moment—about how he’d react—but there was only arousal, no fear or jealousy. He wanted to see his brother suck David off; he had no doubt Sherlock would leave both of them breathless.

David pulled down his jeans and pants to his thighs, exposing his erect cock at a level just below Sherlock’s mouth. It was of average length, but quite thick. Sherlock wouldn’t choke on it, but it was going to be a mouthful and his jaw would probably ache later.

Sherlock swallowed, but it was out of anticipation, not anxiety—he looked ready to devour David. Without a word, he grabbed the base of it with one hand and swirled his tongue around the head.

“Holy _fuck_ ,” David said, as Sherlock took him deeper into his mouth.

Mycroft grinned: David seemed to approve of his talents.

Sherlock, for the most part, kept his attention on David, but Mycroft saw him glance over in his direction more than once. He smiled, and Sherlock returned to his task, satisfied that Mycroft was all right with the situation.

David was gentler than Mycroft had expected, letting Sherlock take the lead and never forcing himself down his throat. Mycroft was glad—Sherlock could give an amazing blowjob, and—although they both enjoyed it at times—rough face-fucking seemed like such a waste of his skills.

“God, he’s got such a talented mouth,” David said as he gripped the nearby chair for support. “If he keeps this up, I’m not gonna last long.”

“He’ll be happy to take orders; trust me. Tell him what you want.”

“No, no… this is good, believe me. I just don’t want it to end,” he said, with a blissed-out look on his face. When he got close to orgasm, he gripped Sherlock’s hair and held his head in place, and then groaned with pleasure as he came down his throat. With a dazed expression, he pulled his cock from Sherlock’s mouth. “My God, that was amazing.”

Sherlock beamed. So did Mycroft.

Mycroft extended a hand and helped Sherlock to his feet. “Nice job. Did you enjoy it?”

“You have to ask?” Sherlock said with a grin.

“No, not really,” Mycroft said, glancing down; Sherlock’s erection still pressed eagerly against the fly of his trousers.

“You still okay with everything?”

Mycroft smiled, touched that he’d asked. “Yes, thanks.” He ran his hand across the stretched-tight leather covering Sherlock’s groin. “Would you like some help with that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me what you want.”

Sherlock fixed him with a desperate look. “Fuck me? Please?”

David, with a well-meaning but absurd sense of propriety, offered to leave the room.

Sherlock looked at Mycroft and shook his head.

“We’d both like you to stay, if you want,” Mycroft said.

David smiled. “Thank you.” He pulled up his jeans and settled back into the chair to watch.

Mycroft pulled Sherlock close and kissed him. He found it slightly disconcerting to taste someone else, but he shook it off—he just hadn’t been expecting it.

“All right, you,” he said to Sherlock. “Take those trousers off and get on the bed. I’ll let you choose how you want it; you’ve earned it.”

Sherlock made quick work of his clothes, then knelt on the bed on all fours, giving David a good view from the side. The two marks from the cane still showed red against his white skin, but they’d faded a little already.

Mycroft undressed, grabbed the lube and crawled onto the bed behind him. He palmed his arse and said, “You love being on your hands and knees, don’t you, you little slut? Presenting your arse for me like this—how can I resist?” He pushed against the plug a few times, causing Sherlock to whimper. He took his time as he worked the generously-sized toy out of him. David’s eyes went wide when he saw its full girth. 

“Impressive.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Mycroft said with a smile and obvious pride. They had much larger toys, although this one was more than adequate for ‘day use’ and stretching him open for a fuck.

He slicked himself up and held his brother’s cheeks wide for a few seconds, watching Sherlock’s hole fluttering and gaping for him, desperate and waiting to be taken. He lined up the head of his cock, resisting the urge to bury it deep, and teased him, slowly pushing just the head of it in and then removing it, relishing the squeeze of Sherlock’s muscles as he attempted to pull Mycroft inside.

Sherlock tried to shift backwards to impale himself, but Mycroft kept a firm hand on his arse and wouldn’t let him. “Please, Mycroft,” he begged, in a tone so desperate that Mycroft couldn’t resist any longer. In one swift movement, he buried himself to the hilt, and Sherlock cried out with pleasure and relief. The tight, smooth heat felt like velvet around his cock, and he stayed buried like that for a while, fucking him in tiny increments that felt heavenly to him but were just a tease for Sherlock.

Sherlock whimpered, sounding almost incoherent.

Mycroft grinned and pulled almost all the way out, then thrust back in and fucked him with smooth, firm strokes. If he was quick about it, Sherlock would be unlikely to come without a hand on his cock; Mycroft had something else in mind for him. It would be a near thing, though—Sherlock was already beside himself with pleasure, caught up in the overwhelming sensations and brushes against his prostate, exquisitely sensitive from wearing the plug all day.

Mycroft felt his orgasm approaching, and the thought of what he was about to do to Sherlock—and how Sherlock would react—was all it took to get him there. He pushed in hard and deep as he came, gripping Sherlock’s hips as the massive orgasm tore through him. As he pulled out, Sherlock turned to look at him in confusion. Mycroft never left him this close to orgasm—this desperate—and Sherlock remained in position, unsure of what to do next. Mycroft wiped himself off with some tissues and stood up. He draped a towel over the edge of the bed.

“Sherlock, sit over here. David, would you mind helping? Come up on the bed and kneel behind him.”

Sherlock looked at Mycroft with bewilderment, but did as he was asked. David got into place, and Mycroft said, “All right, I want you to hold his arms at his sides and prevent him from moving.”

As soon as Sherlock was restrained, Mycroft knelt on the floor between his legs.

Sherlock stared at him, dumbfounded.

Mycroft hadn’t gone down on him in months—not since the early days of their relationship, in fact, when they’d first started experimenting with Sherlock’s submissive tendencies.

David held his upper arms tightly against his sides. Mycroft pushed Sherlock’s legs wide, then looked up at him and said, “Don’t. Move.”

Sherlock made an indistinct movement with his head, unsure if he was supposed to say ‘yes’ or ‘no’. He continued to stare in mute amazement.

Mycroft kept his hands on Sherlock’s legs, then lowered his head and touched the tip of his tongue to the head of his swollen cock.

Sherlock convulsed at the touch—well, tried to—but David and Mycroft’s hands kept him firmly in place.

“I said, ‘Don’t move.’”

“Trying…” Sherlock replied. He sounded wrecked.

Mycroft gave him three more teasing licks before he grasped the base of his brother’s cock and swallowed it.

Sherlock cried out and would have involuntarily bucked deep into Mycroft’s mouth if he hadn’t been held down.

It had been a while since Mycroft had done this, and he knew he was nowhere near as good as Sherlock, but judging by his low moans, Sherlock seemed quite happy. He took his time, savouring the weight of his brother’s cock on his tongue and the vague scent of warm leather. His technique, although leisurely and self-indulgent, rendered Sherlock incoherent. It took less than a minute before he heard Sherlock beg, “Please, can I…”

He nodded, just enough to get the point across, and seconds later Sherlock came down his throat with a deep moan.

As Sherlock finally relaxed, Mycroft licked him clean, then he wiped his mouth with a grin and nodded at David to let Sherlock go.

Sherlock sat there, still looking dazed. “Holy _hell_ , My. _Fuck_.”

Mycroft sat on the bed next to him and kissed him, long and slow, and David subtly moved away to give them some space.

“That was… I don’t even know. _Amazing._ Thank you.” Sherlock was still looking at him with an expression of awe.

“It was my pleasure—all of it,” Mycroft said, and he meant it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who have asked when I’ll be getting back to Greg in the present day: “soon”. I haven’t written it yet though, so I don’t have a firm answer for you. Also, this is the last full chapter of work that I prepared in advance of NaNoWriMo (which I completed!). I’ll try to continue to make weekly updates, but I can’t promise anything. I sometimes post status updates on tumblr, where I'm chasingriversong.


	32. Civil Service

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The British Government takes an interest in Mycroft's career.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: deklava

Their liaison with David wasn’t a one-time thing; it developed into a guilt-free ‘friends with benefits’ arrangement. His presence in their lives, far from hurting their relationship, brought Mycroft and Sherlock even closer together.

Sherlock stayed on as David’s houseboy, and David continued to ‘pay’ him in bondage equipment. With Mycroft’s approval, and often his direct involvement, David trained Sherlock to be a ‘proper’ submissive. He also gave Mycroft some pointers on being an effective Dom.

It probably would have gone on for years, if it hadn’t been for one thing.

It wasn’t jealousy, or guilt, or boredom, or a lack of space for dungeon furniture.

It was the intervention of the British Government.

* * *

The written summons arrived hand-delivered via personal assistant, which didn’t bode well at all. Worse still, it wasn’t even his branch—it was from the Home Office. He couldn’t imagine what he’d done to attract _their_ attention. Mycroft panicked for a second, wondering if Sherlock was involved, then pasted on an artificial smile and followed the well-dressed young man out of the building into the oppressive early-February drizzle.

They were met by a surprisingly luxurious car: a black sedan, with tinted windows and soft leather seats. It headed towards the Home Office headquarters, but then—disturbingly—turned off in the opposite direction, towards the Thames. Mycroft felt the skin crawl on the back of his neck.

“Where, exactly, did you say we were going?”

“I didn’t.”

“I thought you said you were from the Home Office.”

The clean-cut assistant just smiled. “We’ll be there shortly.”

_Not at the Home Office, we won’t._

‘There’ turned out to be the sleek, glass-and-concrete headquarters of MI6. Mycroft felt like he was going to be sick. It couldn’t possibly be anything he’d done—there had been that one incident where a Member of Parliament had asked him to change the dates on some corporate earnings reports, but it wasn’t unheard of—and he’d be surprised if that was something MI6 would care about. Sherlock hadn’t been much more than arms-length away from him for over six months now. Surely even _he_ couldn’t manage to get into this sort of trouble. It must be something to do with his work. Someone higher up. He prayed he’d know the answer to whatever they were going to ask him.

He was directed to an unmarked office occupied by an older, dour-faced man.

“Mycroft Holmes.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes.”

The man didn’t offer his name. “We’ve heard a lot about you. You’re reliable, hard-working, and not afraid to bend the rules every now and then.”

_Oh, dear. They know about the earnings reports._

“You’re exactly the sort of person we’d like to have over here; no need to see you wasting away on the other side of the Thames.”

Relief flooded through him: this visit wasn’t disciplinary, after all. _Perhaps things are looking up._ He’d always presumed the adage about ‘hard work paying off’ was a lie told to hard workers to keep them working hard. He sat up a little straighter in his chair.

“We think you’d be a good fit for our surveillance team. It’s a good division, lots of room for advancement, and you’ve certainly got the mind for it. The pay would be much higher, of course. You’d be subject to the standard background checks: criminal, financial, medical, social history, yearly polygraph. Just a formality, really.”

He mentally ticked off each item in the list. _Fine, fine, fine…_ _social history? Oh, God. Former lovers. Jonathan._

Jonathan, who would have all _sorts_ of juicy information and lies to share, he was sure: as a solicitor, he’d always been clever at fabricating stories. They’d probably run across David, too, and his living arrangement with Sherlock—the latter was superficially less damning, but he didn’t want it to come under closer scrutiny by the SIS, of all people. He’d heard about the process from someone else who’d been promoted to MI6: they were _extremely_ thorough in their investigations.

“Thank you very much, sir; I’m honoured to be given this privilege.” _Sort of._ “Would it be all right if I took a few days to consider it?”

“Are you quite serious?” the man said, incredulously. “There should be nothing to consider. People don’t turn down this sort of position unless they’ve got something to hide.”

_Isn’t that the truth. I’ve been here for two minutes, and already I need to lie._

“It’s a medical issue, sir. I have a history of depression, and it’s exacerbated by stressful situations. I’m not sure I’d be able to perform to my full capacity in a job like this.” It was rooted in the truth, at least.

“I didn’t see that in your file.”

_I suppose they already started their investigation, then._

“We consulted with our family doctor. It’s genetic, and not something my mother wished to be _publicly_ known.” He said it with the barest hint of accusation.

“I see. Well, I must inform you that a full psychological examination is part of the background check. However, we have other people with similar issues in our employ, and I see no reason why it should prevent you from working here, as long as it’s well-managed.”

“Thank you, sir. All the same, I’d appreciate a few days to consider it.”

“If you must.”

He wasn’t sure how to respond to that. ‘I must’ sounded rude. “Thank you, sir.”

“James will give you our contact information,” he said, then he looked down and started making notes in the paperwork on his desk—a clear sign of dismissal.

Mycroft showed himself out.

* * *

He sat in his office and stared at the wall. He had the nasty feeling that if he refused the job, word would get back to his current employers about his ‘history of depression’ and his career path would take a nose-dive. MI6 didn’t seem to take rejection well.

_And if I subject myself to the background check?_

Jonathan was a solicitor—his status made it unlikely that he’d be dismissed out of hand as a jealous ex-lover making up stories. Worse, he imagined Jonathan pictured himself as blameless; he probably felt Mycroft had overreacted and thrown him out onto the street without just cause. Since Mycroft hadn’t reported Jonathan’s abuse at the time, there was nothing except Sherlock’s pictures to discredit Jonathan’s version of events, and he really didn’t want to drag the whole thing out into the open.

But his living situation with Sherlock: that had the potential to be even worse. If they looked into his ‘roommate situation’, they’d surely question why someone with his finances chose to live in a small flat with his brother. It had gone on far too long to be a ‘transitory living arrangement’. Regardless of whether their unconventional relationship could be proved—or, God forbid, prosecuted as incest—the merest suggestion of it would be career-ending. It was exactly the type of ‘potential blackmail source’ they were looking for with their background checks.

And then there was David: Mycroft didn’t want to bring an investigation down on his head. As a professional Dom, his job skirted the margins of legality as it was. He had no intention of repaying David’s friendship with legal proceedings.

And a job in _surveillance_? Violating people’s privacy for money.

No. This wasn’t going to work.

He stared at the wall for another thirty seconds before he picked up the phone.

“Sherlock? We need to talk.”

* * *

They sat in the posh restaurant, discussing the matter over their salad course.

“I’m not going to accept the job; I won’t put us under that sort of scrutiny. My current job will most likely disintegrate when they hear about this, though. So much for my ‘promising career’.”

Sherlock shrugged. “You never liked it anyway.”

_True._

“So, what are you going to do next? Find a professorship somewhere?” Sherlock said.

“I don’t have to _do_ anything. You know that.”

“We don’t need the money, no. But if you sit at home all day, you’ll go insane.”

“I suppose I could teach. I have some contacts at Cambridge who’d probably help.”

Sherlock pushed a cherry tomato around the plate with his fork. His gaze drifted out of the windows onto the wet glass buildings of the London skyline. It was an impressive view, but utterly grey and depressing. “Mummy won’t care what you do, you know. As long as you tell her you’re happy, she’ll be fine with anything.”

“Yes, I know,” Mycroft said. It was true enough.

“So, put in your resignation and be done with it; you can find something else to do later. I feel the same way as Mummy—you should do whatever makes you happy.”

Mycroft followed Sherlock’s gaze out over the skyline. “I was wondering,” he said, but he couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence. He’d been thinking about it since the moment he’d decided to decline the offer, but it didn’t seem fair to ask—not now that they had a social life and Sherlock was enjoying his job so much.

“What?”

“Never mind. Sorry. Yes, of course I’ll find something.” He smiled, even though it was a bit forced.

Sherlock turned back to look at him. “I’ll do it, you know.”

“Do what?” Mycroft said, unsure if they were talking about the same thing.

“Leave London. That’s what you’re getting at, right? Your job isn’t keeping you here anymore.”

“But… David, and your job. Things aren’t the same as they were before.”

“Of course not; things change. What we have with David is unique, certainly, but if you’ll be happier elsewhere, I think that’s far more important. And it should go without saying that I’ll follow you anywhere.”

“What about your job?” Mycroft said.

“David will find another houseboy. Besides, it’s not like we’d be moving to South America or something. England’s a small island. We have a car. There are trains.” He paused. “You’re _not_ considering moving to South America, are you? Because I’m going to have to brush up on my language skills if you are.”

Mycroft smiled. “No. I haven’t given the details much thought, really. I didn’t think you’d want to do it.”

“Well, then: we could still _visit_ London. Perhaps we should find somewhere for a month—keep the flat in Hammersmith for now. Figure out some options. If it doesn’t work out, it’ll just be a nice break from the city, but if we like being away, we can decide what to do from there.”

The plan provided them with a safety net—or more accurately, a very slow-acting bungee—as they leapt into the unknown.

* * *

Mycroft awoke to the sound of driving rain. He shifted onto his side to see if he could catch a glimpse of the sky out the window, but the movement woke Sherlock.

“Sorry. Go back to sleep; it’s still early.”

“S’fine,” he said, his voice still groggy. “Oh no, don’t tell me it’s raining.”

“Fine, I won’t.” It wasn’t just raining, it was pouring. He shifted back and pressed his side up against Sherlock’s chest, angling for a kiss; he got one. They’d gone back to Torquay on a whim, curious to see what it was like during winter. “‘The English Riviera’, eh?” he said, unable to resist a little good-natured teasing.

Sherlock took the bait, which Mycroft chalked up to sleepiness. “They’d predicted ‘bright’ for the whole weekend,” he replied with a groan.

Mycroft leaned over and kissed him again. “Don’t worry; it’s nice to be out of London.”

They were staying in a furnished flat. The owner’s taste in decorating left a lot to be desired—style à la Ikea—but it didn’t approach the horrors of the B&B where they’d stayed previously. The heating—necessary in February—worked well, and the place was clean.

The weather put a damper on their plans to explore by foot. On the first day, they tromped in raincoats from the car park in the middle of town, to the warmth of the nearest bookshop—the only shop of significant interest to them both. As Mycroft shook the cold rain from his umbrella, he wondered if they should have gone to Paris instead. It had plenty of bookshops, and theatres, and museums… but then they might as well be back in London. He brought it up, but Sherlock thought it was a horrible idea, proclaiming the entire country to be unnecessarily fond of itself—which Mycroft found rich, coming from him. Besides, he wanted to get away from people for a while. Everybody but Sherlock.

After three solid days of rain, and a well-thumbed stack of new books back at the flat (on the geology of Dartmoor for Sherlock, and the history of piracy in Devon for Mycroft), they both longed for the distractions and access to information they’d had in London. The internet, something they’d started taking for granted, was next to useless in Torquay. The flat only offered dial-up access, and doing anything online was an exercise in slow screen-loading frustration. They’d had a high-speed connection in London for over a year now, and reverting to dial-up seemed as archaic as a riding in a horse-drawn carriage. Rumour had it that by 2005, the whole country would be using broadband. The infrastructure was in place: Mycroft couldn’t see what was taking them so long. If it was _their_ flat, he’d have a faster connection installed… but it wasn’t.

They’d made another tactical error: toys. It hadn’t been feasible to bring their entire collection, so they’d stuck to the basics: plug, crop, gag, flogger, and a copious amount of lube. He didn’t know what they’d been thinking, especially given Sherlock’s appetite. The first few days were fine, but by the third day, Sherlock wanted to be tied up, and of course the cuffs were in London. Torquay didn’t have much in the way of sex shops. Or, in fact, _anything_ in the way of sex shops. If they didn’t bring it with them, there wasn’t any chance of getting it. The best they could hope for was some rope at the local DIY or marine supply shop.

Sherlock demanded a ‘sanity trip’ back to London to retrieve more toys, books, and some ‘necessary’ lab equipment. Mycroft, loathe as he was to give in to Sherlock’s demands, couldn’t agree more. They hadn’t even been here a week, and already, not having a job was making his fingers itch. He needed to be doing _something_. ‘Endless sex and reading’ was only sustainable for so long, no matter how good it sounded.

He’d envisioned bracing walks across the headlands, fresh air, and a respite from the teeming crowds of the city. There were certainly fewer people here, but getting outside was much less appealing when it was raining so hard you couldn’t see the ocean.

Sherlock snapped him out of his thoughts. “I’m going to run a load of washing; is this everything? I stripped the bed, too.”

Mycroft looked up, surprised to see him carrying a hamper of clothes. “Oh, thank you. I think so.” Sherlock had done all the washing since he’d started working for David. Normally, there wasn’t much, as his suits required dry-cleaning. Here, though, he hadn’t worn a suit all week. It was an odd feeling. Freeing. “Bored?”

“I needed a break from reading.” Sherlock went to the washing machine in the small cupboard and started to sort the lights and darks. Mycroft had to hand it to David—he’d turned Sherlock into the model of domesticity. He allowed himself a smile when he knew Sherlock wasn’t looking. Mummy wouldn’t recognise him with his newfound skills—skills she’d never learnt: she’d never washed anything in her life. It was silly, but he was proud of Sherlock for doing something simply because it needed to be _done_ , without making a fuss or expecting some sort of reward. He could still be an utter brat, of course, when it came to things he wanted, but this new side of him was a refreshing change.

After dinner, Sherlock did the ironing and Mycroft helped him fold and put away the clothes. It was comically mundane. The rain let up a bit, but continued as a heavy drizzle outside their window. They turned on the telly to watch the news, and were gratified to see that London had been tortured by the same weather.

“I’m sure it’s not always this bad,” Sherlock said.

“You’re right. It is February. It’s not just the weather, though: I’m used to having something to think about for eight hours a day, and I don’t really know what to do with myself at the moment.” He waited for the inevitable ‘I told you so’ from Sherlock.

“I miss work, too,” Sherlock replied instead. “Besides, it’s not like I can ‘wander the streets of Torquay’ like I used to do in London. I’d be done in an hour.”

Mycroft chuckled and stood up. He poured some nice Scotch into some horribly tacky pressed-glass tumblers from Ikea and shuddered a little; he might as well be drinking straight from the bottle.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, I think this might have been a colossal mistake. There’s nothing down here for us to do—it’s a holiday town with no prospects for work. It’s a nice enough place to visit during the summer but I think we’ll lose our minds if we stay here year-round.”

Sherlock took a sip of his drink. “Mm. I’m inclined to agree,” he said. “But I’m still not going to Paris.”

Mycroft smiled. “No, I was thinking I should reconsider Cambridge.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in reply. “They’re a bunch of pompous gits, and the students are entitled brats.”

“Oh?”

“As an entitled brat, I believe I’m qualified to make that statement.”

“Fair enough,” Mycroft said with a smile, but then he sighed and rested his head on the back of the sofa. “To be honest, I’m sick of working my way up the food chain. The government, universities: they’re all the same in the end. It’s as much about who you impress as how hard you work.”

“Start a business, then. You’ve always been incredibly impressed with yourself—half the work is done.”

Mycroft lobbed a pillow at him, and Sherlock held his drink out of the way of his poorly-aimed retaliation.

“I’d avoid professional cricket, though.”

Mycroft lobbed the other pillow at him, this one hitting its mark. He smiled, grimly. “What about rugby?”

“I’d never tolerate that many men piling on top of you,” Sherlock said, without missing a beat.

“You make the game sound far more interesting than it actually is,” Mycroft said, and sipped his drink. “What about you? You’ll have to figure out something as well, or you’ll be bored to tears.”

He shrugged. “I’ll find something. Perhaps there’s a Dom who needs a houseboy.”

Mycroft sat up straight. “That’s an idea…”

Sherlock interrupted him. “You? ‘A Dom in Devon’? Sounds like a bad novel.”

“No, not me. Think about it: what else can I do—really well?”

“Make me come?”

Mycroft looked around to find another pillow, but there were none left. “Be serious for a moment. I managed all the daily affairs at the manor after Father died. I still do the books. Remember that abysmal bed and breakfast we stayed in, and how we joked about making it soundproof?”

Sherlock smiled fondly at the memory. Given the owner’s frosty reception during checkout, he suspected his pants hadn’t worked very well as an impromptu gag.

“What if we ran a B&B—one that _only_ catered to kinky clients? One that wasn’t run by a geriatric busybody. Better still: one with sex toys. It would prevent the very situation we’re in now: going on holiday and having to leave all your favourite playthings at home.”

He gave Mycroft a distasteful look. “I doubt people would want to share butt plugs.”

“No, not that: the implements, and more importantly, the furniture. Do you know anyone other than David who has such a good collection? I’m sure there’d be lots of couples who’d love access to something like that.”

“A dungeon.”

“A boutique B&B experience,” Mycroft countered.

Sherlock found himself in the unlikely position of talking _Mycroft_ out of doing something insane; usually it was the other way around. “Running a bed and breakfast isn’t the same as doing the books at the manor.”

“Of course not, but how hard can it be? I’d do the books and the catering, and you can be the houseboy.”

“This doesn’t strike you as a disaster waiting to happen? You have seen _Fawlty Towers_ , right?”

“Of course, but that was a scripted television show, not real life. We’d only take one booking at a time, and we’d be very selective.”

“How?”

Mycroft paused to think for a few moments. “David might be willing to point ‘appropriate’ clients in our direction.”

“Oh.” Sherlock gave this serious consideration. “That’s not a very profitable business model.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

Sherlock took a rather large swig of his Scotch. “True… but you’ll have to explain to Mummy what you’re doing with the money.”

“Of course, but I doubt she’ll care, as long as it doesn’t interfere with her clothing allowance. Besides, it’ll barely make a dent in our overall holdings—certainly nothing they can’t recover from. When she asks, I’ll tell her I hated my job and needed a break from London. We both wanted to move to the country, so we purchased a house on ‘The English Riviera’ and we’re renovating it. It’s all true. I would never lie to her.”

“You’ve never told her we’re sleeping together,” Sherlock said, sardonically.

He quirked a smile. “She’s never asked. She’s also unlikely to ask if we’re running a kinky bed and breakfast. Some things are better left unmentioned.”

“True.”

Mycroft continued thinking out loud. “We’ll buy a place and turn it into a boutique hotel—one that has a single room available. We’ll renovate, soundproof—”

Sherlock smirked.

“—run high-speed internet access, decorate the place impeccably, and then we add our stunning collection of dungeon furniture and toys. We won’t publicise it, at least not around here. David can vet our potential clients as responsible members of the community, and then we open it for kinky couple’s weekends.”

Sherlock was at a loss for words.

Mycroft shrugged. “ _I’d_ visit.”


	33. Renovations

Mycroft walked into the kitchen, his normally perfect grooming marred by the plaster dust coating the bottoms of his trousers. “I swear it would be quicker to renovate this place ourselves,” he said to Sherlock, who’d just finished washing the dishes from their lunch. “They said they’d have the hallway finished last week, and at this rate, it won’t be done until Thursday.”

Sherlock winced a half-smile in reply. “Sorry, I’m not up on my plastering.” He brushed some dust from Mycroft’s shoulder. “The plumbers phoned — they’re going to deliver the new bath tomorrow.”

“Oh, that’ll be good. At least we’ll be able to have a nice, long soak.”

The place was coming along, but not nearly as quickly as they’d hoped or expected. When they’d purchased the elegant three-storey house in early March, they’d hoped to open up for business before the end of the summer. The date came and went. The dodgy September weather drove the tourists back to their daily lives and the master suite still wasn’t finished; they’d lost the summer to the never-ending invasion of a contractor army.

Their own bedrooms — they had to keep up appearances for the outside world — were mostly complete, as was the kitchen and small dining area. They’d taken to sleeping in the larger of the two bedrooms, with the second one converted into a temporary study for Sherlock. They’d both share the main study eventually, but Sherlock’s newfound interest in geology had clashed somewhat with Mycroft’s desire for a bit of peace and quiet after long days of dealing with the workmen’s power tools.

The logistics of opening a bed and breakfast, even a tiny one, went well beyond what they’d imagined. Just updating the house to have proper plumbing and a post-war electrical system had taken months, and the new room layout and the soundproofing made it necessary to strip parts of it down to the bare beams. They each took responsibility for different contractors and different aspects of the project; it would have killed them if they hadn’t. More to the point, they’d have strangled each other, and not in an ‘exciting breath-play’ sort of way.

Neither of them had been bored, but sometimes they’d both longed for it. Even Sherlock. They’d mostly been exhausted. On those nights when even reading seemed like too much effort, they curled up together on the sofa and watched films. Sometimes silly ones. Despite Sherlock’s periodic claims to the contrary, Mycroft’s sense of humour had not been surgically removed at birth.

They hadn’t even got to the decorating stage. Their bondage furniture currently existed in a purgatory otherwise known as Exeter Personal Storage and would be retrieved after they finalised their decisions on paint colours and carpet and linens and a plethora of other things that made Mycroft’s brain hurt every time he thought about them. He was sorely tempted to leave all the choices up to Sherlock, but then they’d end up with something exotic like dark purple — attractive on Sherlock but less so when it came to carpet or wall colour. He wanted something that said ‘refined and classy’, which inevitably meant something in a light neutral, which was a shame, really. He supposed the other colours would be fine as accents.

As he lay in bed that night, he pressed a gentle kiss to the back of Sherlock’s neck. Despite the dust and noise and frustration and chaos, he never regretted their decision to leave London for a second. They were here. Together.

* * *

Mycroft smiled as he closed the door on the retreating figure of the carpet contractor. That was the last of the workmen. They’d finally finished the renovation, and the decorating, and now they could get on with retrieving their ‘interesting’ furniture and all the other things that could incriminate them to outside observers. It was early April. With any luck, they’d be open by May.

On hearing the front door close, Sherlock breezed into the hallway. “We did it, and we didn’t even kill anyone.”

“Or each other,” Mycroft said, pulling Sherlock in for a kiss. “Both of which are small miracles. I need a holiday.”

“I need a drink.”

“We can make one of those things happen.”

They went into the study, where they kept the scotch and the good crystal.

As Mycroft poured them each a glass, Sherlock pressed against his back and kissed his neck in an effort at distraction. “Hurry up with those. We should celebrate the last of those overly curious bastards.”

Mycroft slid around beneath his embrace and handed him a glass. “Indeed. Cheers, love. To us.”

“To us.”

They both took a sip. The dusky smoke of the alcohol played across their palettes as they kissed. Somehow it erased Mycroft’s earlier exhaustion and replaced it with the urge to bend his brother over the desk — and it seemed Sherlock felt much the same way.

Sherlock had already abandoned his drink in favour of undoing the buttons on Mycroft’s shirt. “I’m so glad you stopped wearing suits all the time. This is much more efficient.”

Mycroft started to reciprocate, but stopped and sat in the desk chair. Sherlock gave him a confused look.

“I want to watch you undress.”

Sherlock smiled and positioned himself a few feet away from his brother. He held eye contact as he slowly sucked one finger into his mouth, then he pulled it over his lower lip and carefully undid the first button on his shirt.

“Tart,” Mycroft said, lovingly. “Always putting on a show.”

“That’s why you love me,” he replied with a grin, undoing another button.

Mycroft mirrored his actions and was already out of his shirt as Sherlock rubbed his still-damp fingertip across his own nipple and licked his lips.

“Come here, you gorgeous tease,” Mycroft said, and pulled his brother into his lap. Sherlock straddled him and started to undo his trousers, but his efforts faltered as Mycroft squeezed one of his nipples. His eyes fluttered closed. “Enjoying that?”

“Stupid question,” Sherlock murmured, which earned him a chastising pinch. He ran his hands across Mycroft’s chest, then dipped to claim his unmarked neck.

“Mycroft?” he said, in a low voice that made Mycroft’s legs weak.

“Hm?”

“Will you let me fuck you?”

Mycroft tensed up and willed himself not to panic. He didn’t respond, but the silence went on too long to be anything but a ‘no’.

Sherlock heaved a sigh and climbed off his lap. Mycroft reached out after him but he pulled away.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. You know we’ve talked about this before. I just can’t.”

“We haven’t talked about it — you just tell me we can’t and that’s the end of the discussion,” Sherlock said bitterly with his back to Mycroft. He took a hefty swig of the scotch and started to put his clothes back on, but his slumped shoulders indicated resignation more than the desire for a fight.

“Stop — please don’t. We can discuss this properly.”

Sherlock zipped his trousers and sat on the edge of the desk. He didn’t bother putting on his shirt. “I’m listening.” He crossed his arms and fixed him with a stare that was equal parts judgement and curiosity.

He grasped for words but nothing came out, and his silence only confirmed what Sherlock had stated: there wouldn’t be a discussion.

It wasn’t that he _wouldn’t_ explain — he _couldn’t_. He couldn’t formulate the argument; there was no logical basis for his fear. There had to be some logical reason he couldn’t allow it, but there wasn’t — not one that didn’t involve control issues or Jonathan or his fear that Sherlock might leave him if the power dynamic between them changed.

The idea of talking about it made him break out in a cold sweat.

“Did you hear the part where I said, ‘I’m listening’, or is silence your new version of ‘I can’t’?”

“It’s not … simple.”

“I’ve got plenty of time.” Bitterness bled in around the edges of Sherlock’s voice.

Unable to think of anything that would satisfy him, he merely said, “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t trust me.”

“That’s not true and you know it.” He fell back on the one thing Sherlock wouldn’t question. “Just thinking about it makes me … you know … Jonathan.” It wasn’t a lie — he’d always bottomed in that relationship — it just wasn’t the whole truth.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and bit out, “I’m not Jonathan.”

Mycroft felt helpless. He hadn’t meant to imply that, and he was sure Sherlock knew it, but this escalating war of words wasn’t going to end well. “No, I know. You’re nothing like him. I’m sorry.” He couldn’t give up control in their relationship. They’d worked with the same dynamic for so long it had become like breathing, and if they went down this path, one day Sherlock was going to ask to crop him again, and then what would he do?

“Are you ever going to let me fuck you?”

He’d never let anyone penetrate him since Jonathan, not even David. It was just sex and it seemed ridiculous to be so arbitrary about it, but … logic wasn’t in play here. “Why do you want this so badly? Is it a control thing? The novelty factor?”

Sherlock gave a quick laugh. “Honestly?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I just … want to. I think you’d enjoy it. People used to tell me I was good.” He shrugged.

“And?” There was more to it than that, there had to be.

“And nothing.” He scowled as he slid off the desk and stalked over to the window. “It’s not like I have a secret plan to overthrow you: ‘one fuck and you’ll be on your knees begging to be my slave’. I know you better than that. Besides, that’s not my thing.”

The irony of it was, it wasn’t _his_ thing either. He might be a switch, but not when it came to Sherlock.

“I’m not trying to push you into anything — you know I’m not — but I think it’s time you tried to move beyond things with Jonathan. It’s been four years.”

“I know how long it’s been,” he snapped, but then he sighed, suddenly exhausted by the whole conversation. He followed him to the window and gently placed his hands on his shoulders. Sherlock flinched but didn’t pull away; he didn’t turn around either. “I’m sorry,” Mycroft said, “can we just not fight about this? Please?”

When Sherlock spoke, all the fight had gone out of his voice, replaced by weariness. “All your control issues — one day you’re going to snap, you know.”

“Please? I don’t want —”

He turned around and cupped Mycroft’s cheek. “Okay.”

Relief flowed through him; a temporary truce — ignoring the situation again — was better than nothing.

Sherlock refilled his glass and raised it in a toast. Looking cautiously optimistic, he said, “To the Torquay Arms.”

Mycroft glanced around; the transformed building represented months of work and the promise of a new life for both of them, but only if they could both stay sane. “To us.”

 


	34. David

Throughout the renovation, their relationship with David — despite his distance from Torquay — continued much as it had before. Their times together were less frequent, but the unique nature of his job allowed some flexibility with his schedule, and every few weeks he’d manage to come and stay for a night or two. It made the loneliness of life in a new town more bearable. Other times, in between contractors, they’d gone up to London and stayed with him.

It wasn’t as if they’d set anything in stone, but the ‘friends with benefits’ boat had long since sailed. A two-year sexual relationship, even a casual one, couldn’t be dismissed as something meaningless. They’d been with David for twice as long as Mycroft had been with Jonathan, and letting something as trivial as distance come between them was unthinkable.

Slowly though, the ease with which they’d fallen into bed together crumbled. Whereas before they’d seen each other almost daily and already knew what was going on, they now spent more time catching up on the details of each other’s lives. Now, there was more talk than sex. Not that it was bad, per se, but he had limited time to visit and their focus shifted back into the realm of ‘just friends’.

No one was to blame, it just didn’t work anymore.

Near the end of their renovation he showed up for a visit, as excited as a new puppy, talking about Sandeep, a new accountant with the firm that did his books. (For tax purposes, he was a “relationship consultant”.) Over dinner and drinks, more drinks than they usually had, they discussed whether he should ask him out, all of them knowing David couldn’t keep his job a secret forever, not in a serious relationship.

They drank some more and the night turned maudlin, and they toasted the end of their own extended relationship — a splendid thing, but doomed to failure by distance and the British railway system.

Nursing hangovers the next morning, they discussed Sandeep again, this time while eating dry toast to soothe their roiling stomachs. Even nauseous, David couldn’t help but smile each time he said his name.

Sherlock said the obvious. “You have to try. You’d be stupid not to.” He’d resigned himself months ago to the fact that his days as David’s sub were numbered, and had told Mycroft as much.

Still, the evening had left Mycroft tugging at a thread of regret over the lost possibility of ever subbing for David himself. It wasn’t that he felt an immediate need, but now that the option was slipping from his grasp, he felt a vague sense of panic that those needs would never be fulfilled.

He did what he always did: he repressed his emotions and made more tea.

When David asked Sherlock if he’d mind going to the shop to get the paper, Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’ll leave you two alone to talk about me.”

“Not everything is about you,” David said.

“A bigger shame,” he replied, and went to find his coat.

“How is everything with you two?” he asked, once Sherlock had left.

“Fine,” Mycroft said, quickly enough to sound convincing. (And they were fine, for the most part, as long as they both carefully avoided the massive hole that defined his relationship with submission and pain.)

“Sounds like a ringing endorsement.” David knew him well enough not to be fooled, apparently.

Mycroft didn’t dignify the comment with a reply.

“Anything I can do?”

“It’s fine. It really is.”

“Okay,” he said, looking a bit helpless. “If you ever need to talk things out, I’m here.”

“Thanks.”

“Can I ask you something personal though?”

“More personal than that?” Mycroft said, smiling a little, because this was David, and of course he could.

“I’ve always wondered something. When we met, you told me you were a switch.”

His stomach, previously calmed by the toast, lurched for reasons that had nothing to do with alcohol. This was precisely the last thing he wanted to talk about. And yet, with the possibility of doing anything about it slipping away, it was also something he desperately wanted to discuss. He took another bite of toast to avoid saying anything immediately, and nodded.

“Did you ever pursue that with him?”

He didn’t meet David’s eyes, and instead got up and walked over to the window. He stared out at the clouds over the English Channel.

“I take it that’s a ‘no’? Sorry. We don’t have to talk about this.”

Mycroft turned to face him. “No, it’s … yeah. It’s a trainwreck. Every time it comes up. I just can’t.”

“And he takes it personally?”

“Of course.”

David’s lips tightened into a grim line. “I guess a trip to the shop isn’t long enough to talk about this?”

“I can’t sub for him. I can’t give up control.”

“What about someone else? Me.”

The words felt like a punch to the gut, and he turned around to look out the window again. The awful truth of it was that he dreaded the thought of subbing for David almost as much as he wanted it. Ceding control was a slippery slope, and he didn’t want that slope to end at Sherlock’s feet. “I can’t. And besides, Sandeep.”

“I haven’t asked him out yet.”

Mycroft gave him a pointed look.

David shrugged and said, “I don’t want you to repress things you shouldn’t.”

“I’m not a charity case,” he replied bitterly.

“I didn’t say —”

“— sorry. I shouldn’t have said that,” Mycroft cut in. “I just can’t deal with this now. I’d like to, but I can’t.”

“Do you think it’s going to hurt things between you?”

“No more than it has since we were kids.”

David looked horrified, and Mycroft realised he’d never told him about their long and strange history of shared pain.

“That’s … really not what it sounds like. I assure you there was no abuse involved. He discovered me … well, you know, _with_ someone, with a riding crop. Wanted to try it for himself.”

“Wow.”

“It’s a lot more complicated than that, but I promise you it was at his behest and there was no sexual interaction until we were both adults.”

“Wow,” David said again, seemingly at a loss for anything more coherent to say.

They lapsed into silence for a while. Then Mycroft said, “Edinburgh …”

“Sorry?”

“On his sixteenth birthday, he tracked me down in Edinburgh and brought my riding crop with him. He begged for a chance to use it on me, and I finally gave in.”

“And?”

“I had what can charitably be described as a nervous breakdown. I was in love with him by that point, but wracked with guilt about it and desperate not to let him find out.”

“He didn’t know?”

“He did, in an intuitive sense. He didn’t understand why it was such a big deal. He thought we should be together if we wanted that. And he thought I should have pain if I wanted _that_. Hence the crop.”

“Oh. And when you gave in?”

Mycroft bit his lip to focus on something else for a second, to drive back his emotions as the sense memories from that beating overwhelmed him, as if it had been yesterday, not years ago. _Pain, Sherlock, love, pleasure, pain, Sherlock, pleasure, guilt, need._ The feelings were just as strong now, and just as terrifying. A sense of something so much larger than he could ever control, and the reason he’d run from it all in the first place. “When I gave in, it was everything I’d ever needed, and I sent him away because it was something I could never be allowed to have.”

“That’s really …” David said, but trailed off.

“You can say it.”

“… fucked up,” he finished, with an apologetic look.

“I know,” Mycroft said, resigned.

“So what’re you going to do about it?”

“Nothing. It’s worked fine for me until now and I don’t see why it can’t continue.”

David frowned at him. “That’s not healthy.”

“I never said it was. I just said it seemed to be working.”

“Can I offer my advice?”

“I’m sure you’re going to anyway,” Mycroft said, sarcastically, and then added a “sorry”, because there was no call for rudeness.

“You need to come to terms with it somehow, or at least talk it through with Sherlock. Bottling it up … you want to talk lack of control? It’s going to hit you out of nowhere one day and there won’t be a thing you can do about it.”

He didn’t have a response. David was most likely right, but it didn’t change his decision. “I appreciate the advice.”

David gave a small huff. “Yeah, sure you do. Look, if this thing with Sandeep works out … obviously I can’t leave an open offer for everything, but I’m always willing to talk about this, help you work through it.”

“Thanks. I’ll let you know.”

“And Hell might freeze over,” David said, with enough of a smile that Mycroft knew he wasn’t going to hold it against him.


	35. Open for Business (Plot Outline)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is in plot outline form. Please see the Author's Note at the beginning of the work for details.

They open the Torquay Arms to customers the following May. Their clientele is mainly straight couples, and initially Sherlock isn’t involved sexually, only doing houseboy duties and helping to run the place. He quickly gets bored. When they have their first gay couple come to visit, he has the ‘brilliant idea’ that he could join in. Mycroft is crushed that he isn’t enough for Sherlock and consults David.

David points out that Mycroft needs to rein him in again, as he did before. Sherlock needs structure. He suggests that Sherlock could work as a sort of ‘sexual houseboy’, attending to the sexual needs of well-supervised or previously-vetted clients. Sherlock is, predictably, thrilled by the idea (especially since it’s more or less what he proposed in the first place, but now it’s David’s idea).

David sends one of his friends to visit, and Sherlock subs for him. Mycroft is there, supervising and observing. He’s reassured by David’s ability to vet clients, but incredibly jealous about the whole thing, and he won’t let Sherlock do it again. He reminds Sherlock of everything they’ve been through together and how much it took to get to this place in their lives. He worries that this will split them up and offers to do anything in order to keep their relationship intact, even moving back to London if that’s what it takes.

Sherlock calls David and says Mycroft is being unreasonable. David says he’s not getting involved.

They have a huge fight about it, and Mycroft backs down, worried that Sherlock will leave if he doesn’t get his way. He’s willing to do anything to get him to stay, and — in the grand scheme of things — the session with David’s friend hadn’t been too bad. He just has to get over his jealousy. He decides he can do that.

David sends down another friend, Sherlock subs for him, and it goes well. David assures Mycroft he’ll continue to vet these ‘special’ clients using his contacts in the BDSM community. They make up a small portion of their customer base at first, and it’s not something Sherlock does full-time.

They settle into a routine. Mycroft adjusts and gets over his jealousy issues, and Sherlock thrives in his new role as an ‘amenity’.

* * *

They’ve been in business for about a year when Greg visits. (See chapters 1-15, haha.) It’s 2006.

On the second night of Greg’s visit, after the day at the beach, things seem fine. The three of them have sex, and neither Sherlock nor Mycroft seem to be jealous, but Greg steers clear of any sort of D/s play with Mycroft due to his previously distressed reaction. They all sleep in the same room again. It’s an early night and they’re all asleep by 10:30.

Sherlock wakes up about an hour later. He’s used to sleeping with Mycroft, who normally drapes an arm over him, and it’s strange to wake up with no one touching him. He looks over and sees Greg, with his arm draped across Mycroft in the same way, and he snaps. He’s convinced Mycroft has fallen for Greg (which he has) and will leave him (which … he won’t, but Sherlock can’t see that).

He leaves in the middle of the night and drives to London. He’s not sure what to do. He doesn’t want to go to David, because he blames him almost as much as Greg. _(It was David’s stupid idea — he was supposed to vet Greg, and now Mycroft doesn’t need me anymore.)_ He has to get out of Torquay. _(I’ll go back to London. I liked it there, and it’s exciting. I don’t need Mycroft and Mycroft clearly doesn’t need me.)_

He’s in a very dark place emotionally. He feels hurt and betrayed, and he responds by running and being self-destructive.

It’s a long drive so he stops and buys caffeine pills on the way. He’s still wound up when he gets there, and goes to a club in Soho because he wants to burn off some energy and find some of the excitement he’s looking for. He’s starting to think the club is boring and stupid when a good-looking guy starts flirting with him.

Mycroft wakes up shortly after Sherlock has left. He fears the worst but hopes Sherlock has just gone back to their own bedroom. He tells Greg not to worry, he’ll be right back. The bedroom is empty. He tries to tell himself Sherlock has just gone for a walk, but he doesn’t really believe it. He phones him and gets no answer, so he throws on some clothes and runs up the adjacent road to where they park the car, far enough to be able to see that it’s gone. When he gets back, Greg is waiting for him, looking just as panicked as Mycroft feels.

Mycroft, to put it charitably, has a fit. He doesn’t know what to do. Greg talks him down a bit. It’s only about midnight, so — figuring Sherlock might have gone to London, and not knowing anyone else who can help — Mycroft calls David. Unfortunately, David hasn’t heard from him.

Greg offers to go to London to find him (although realistically, there’s not much he’d be able to do, even with the resources of the Met). Mycroft asks him to stay. He doesn’t want to leave in case Sherlock comes back, and he can’t bear the thought of being alone all night. Mycroft is a wreck, inconsolable, and Greg realises how delicate the relationship between Mycroft and Sherlock is, and how careful he has to be. He doesn’t want to disturb it any more than he already has.

Back in London, Sherlock is telling the stranger how intelligent and amazing he (Sherlock) is. The guy puts up with this for a while, because Sherlock is pretty and he’s hoping to get laid, but when it becomes clear that he’s only interested in explaining how clever he is, the guy gets bored and leaves. Sherlock tries telling other people how brilliant he is, to similar effect. Disgusted, he leaves the club and wanders Soho, ending up at an all-night coffee place with other people who have made their way out of the clubs. But even the caffeine buzz from a double espresso can’t distract him from thoughts of Mycroft.

Sherlock is still hurt and angry, but he misses Mycroft and starts to realise coming to London might have been a mistake. He goes to David’s flat — it’s still before dawn — and rings the doorbell until someone answers. It’s Sandeep, who doesn’t have a clue who he is, and Sherlock has to explain that he’s not some raving lunatic. (It’s a hard sell.) Meanwhile, David comes to the door, and is immensely glad to see him.

_“Mycroft doesn’t need me anymore. He doesn’t want me.”_

_“He’s been looking everywhere for you. Do you have any idea the state he’s in?”_

_“He’s in love with Greg.”_

_“Don’t be stupid. They’ve known each other for, what, just over a day? Also, how is it any different from all the sex you have with clients?”_

_“He subbed for him.”_

_“Oh.”_

David goes quiet, because he knows how much that means. He convinces Sherlock to phone Mycroft to at least let him know he’s okay.

Mycroft is incredibly relieved, tells Sherlock how much he needs him, and convinces him to come home.

Sherlock is in no state to drive, being sleep deprived and due for a caffeine crash any second. Normally it would make sense for him to take the train back and come back to London to get the car later, but David doesn’t trust him to get there. (There’s at least one connection he could sleep through and miss.) David offers to drive him back to Devon (in Sherlock’s car), and then take the train back to London.

Back in Devon, Greg and Mycroft are profoundly relieved. Greg, who feels at fault for all of this, says he’ll leave immediately. He doesn’t want to do any more damage. But Mycroft doesn’t feel he’s to blame and asks him to stay at least until morning. It’ll be another four hours before Sherlock is back and Mycroft doesn’t want to be alone while he’s feeling so wrung out.

As they wait for Sherlock, Mycroft attempts to explain to Greg the complex dynamics surrounding his desire to sub, his desire for pain, and his inability to cede control to Sherlock.

During the process of talking to Greg, he sorts through some of his feelings about the whole situation and it becomes crystal clear to him that as much as he may have enjoyed subbing for Greg, and as much as he may need it on some level, his relationship with Sherlock is more important. He needs to figure out how to repair that before he does anything else.

Greg points out that Mycroft could quench his desire for pain by letting Sherlock crop him — just not in a dominant way. It wouldn’t do anything to fulfil his need to sub, but it’d be something.

This is a revelation to Mycroft. His experience in Edinburgh had been so emotionally charged that compartmentalising pain/pleasure and his submission needs (like Sherlock does with sex and emotional attachment with the guests) hasn’t occurred to him before. It gives him hope that he might be able to satisfy at least some of his needs, while also making Sherlock happier in the process. After all, Sherlock isn’t looking for submission from him, he wants to crop Mycroft because Mycroft enjoys the pain. It dawns on him that the same is true for Sherlock wanting to fuck him — it’s not because he wants him to lose control, Sherlock just thinks it’d be enjoyable for them (which Sherlock has told him, but he’s never really grasped).

Greg apologises for making such a mess of things, and Mycroft tells him it wasn’t his fault. He was just the catalyst in a situation that had been brewing for a while — one that David had tried to warn him about.

Greg leaves, with no hard feelings between them. He still feels bad about inadvertently upending Mycroft’s relationship and hopes there’s been no permanent damage. He’s disappointed it hadn’t worked out — the deep connection he’d felt with Mycroft had been the first he’d had in ages, and topping Sherlock had been a lot of fun as well — but he figures he was lucky to have had the time he did with them.

Sherlock arrives home with David, exhausted. He’s immensely relieved to find Mycroft eager to see him — and not with Greg. He’d worried throughout the drive, sure that Mycroft would want to end their relationship because only Greg could give him the domination he craved. He’d been convinced the sole reason Mycroft wanted him back in Torquay was for his own safety.

They have an emotional reunion, in which Mycroft explains to Sherlock that he is the main priority in his life, and all other things come secondary to that. Sherlock returns the sentiment.

David wants to hang out for a bit and chat, since he hasn’t seen Mycroft in a while. Sherlock wants to get a few hours of sleep. Now that he’s finally been reassured of Mycroft’s love, he can barely stay awake. He heads off for a nap.

Mycroft makes David some breakfast, and they start talking about what happened. He tells David about Greg’s idea that Sherlock crop him, and they discuss how Mycroft feels about it. Since its genesis only a few hours previously, he can’t stop thinking about it. The thought that he might be able to once again have some of the euphoria of Edinburgh — but without the guilt and the nervous breakdown — is intoxicating, especially now that Sherlock is home and doesn’t appear to be harbouring any grudges. He wants to know what David thinks about the whole thing.

David grills him on the submission and control aspects, worried that this will result in a bigger mess if he has another meltdown like he did with Greg (and with Sherlock, in Edinburgh). Mycroft concedes the point, but believes he can work past that as long as he compartmentalises it. David also worries that Sherlock won’t know how to handle the crop properly — something he can help solve.

When Sherlock wakes up, a few hours later, the three of them discuss it. He’s as excited as Mycroft had hoped he’d be by the idea. David and Sherlock have a short, private session together where he shows him how to use the crop properly and lets Sherlock practice on him. Mycroft isn’t there, because putting Mycroft, Sherlock, and a crop in the same room is going to be very charged, even if Sherlock is just practicing, and David wants to let them have that experience to themselves.

With a “good luck”, David heads back to London.


	36. Behind Closed Doors

As soon as they’d closed the front door, they practically fell on each other in a kiss, full of passion, and relief, and desperation.

“I’m so sorry —”

“— it’s not your fault, I should have known,” Mycroft cut in. “I got caught up, and I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay —” Sherlock started, but Mycroft kissed him again, before they could waste any more words. “Say you won’t abandon me?”

Mycroft shook his head. “You mean too much to me. Please don’t run again?”

“I thought you —”

“It’s okay. Just promise me you won’t leave without … I mean, if we’d talked …”

“I know. I’ll say something next time. I wasn’t thinking.”

They kissed again, and this time, relief bloomed into passion and escalated from there. They headed to their personal bedroom and Mycroft closed the door behind them.

“I want you to crop me,” Mycroft said.

It wasn’t a surprise to Sherlock, given that David had just given him lessons, but his breath caught anyway. He’d never expected to hear the words from his brother’s lips. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve wanted it for ten years.”

“Since Edinburgh?”

“Since before that, really,” Mycroft admitted.

“How do you want it? Clothed, naked?”

Mycroft didn’t bother with an answer, just started stripping.

“Is it okay if I …?” he asked, and Mycroft nodded. He got rid of his clothes as well. There was no point in pretending he wouldn’t get off on this; he might as well be expedient about it.

Mycroft stood in front of him, naked and half-hard, already a little breathless.

“Red, yellow, green,” Sherlock said, “and for fuck’s sake, don’t wait until it’s too late to use them if you need to.”

“I know.”

“Where?”

Mycroft hurried over to their bed and bent over the side, stretching his arms above his head to grab on to the covers. In that position, his long legs placed his arse slightly higher than the top of the bed, presenting it perfectly to Sherlock for cropping.

“Oh, Mycroft,” he said, his tone a mixture of reverence and lust, “this looks a lot different without clothes.” Unable to help himself, he grabbed the crop and started rubbing the leather tip of it over Mycroft’s unmarked skin. “Tell me … tell me when —”

“— do it, please!”

He landed the first smack, not too hard, the way David had shown him.

“Yes, come on!” Mycroft begged.

He let loose a small volley of stinging slaps and got a sigh of pleasure for his efforts.

“Harder.”

He increased the intensity, and Mycroft pushed his arse up towards Sherlock like an offering. He rubbed the crop back and forth along the crease between his legs and his arse cheeks, teasing. When Mycroft keened with anticipation, he hit him hard there, three times, and then moved in parallel lines up across his arse. He sagged onto the bed.

“Too much?”

“No,” he said, his voice ragged, “keep going.”

“You have to tell me when to —”

“I _will._ Just keep going!”

He did, and soon his arse had a ladder of red marks.

“Okay,” Mycroft said, “get the lube.” His speech was round-edged and slurred.

“Sorry?” he replied, incredulous.

“You’re going to fuck me.”

Sherlock looked at him like he’d lost his mind.

With what looked like great effort, Mycroft propped himself up and turned to look at him. “— if you have no objections, of course,” he added with a smile.

He bolted for the bedside table and came back with the lube. “Are you sure?”

“Does it help you to know I made this decision before we started?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, and opened the lube. “How was the cropping?”

“You’re not done yet.”

“Sorry?”

“I want you to open me up, then crop me until I can’t take it, and then fuck me until I come. Understood?”

He was too stunned to do anything more than nod.

“Next time —”

“Next time?” Sherlock interrupted.

“— yes, assuming this works out — I’ll plan ahead and be ready for you.”

Sherlock, who’d already been turned on from watching Mycroft enjoy his cropping, was now as hard as a rock. The thought of his brother, wet and open for him, ready to take his cock, made him lightheaded. The idea that he _wanted_ that …

He carefully prepped him with his fingers, relishing the soft velvet heat that surrounded them. When Mycroft was taking three and rutting against his hand, he said, “I think you’re ready.”

Mycroft ‘assumed the position’ to be cropped once more. “I’ll say ‘yellow’ when I can only take a few more strokes. Then make the last ones a bit harder until I say ‘red’. Then I’ll turn over and you’ll fuck me. Don’t be tentative. I’ll tell you if I want you to back off.”

“What … if I can’t last until you come?”

“You know how to stave off an orgasm. Don’t disappoint me.”

* * *

With Sherlock’s first strokes of the crop, Mycroft was transported back to Edinburgh: the elation and the thrill, but then a tug of panic. But instead of repressing the panic, he acknowledged its presence, accepted that it was irrational and unfounded, and let it slip away harmlessly. With the next smack came _‘Sherlock’,_ and then _‘love’,_ and then _pain-joy-freedom-hunger-need-bliss._ He begged for more. It had been so long. So, so long.

He could feel himself slipping away already, and he wanted Sherlock to anchor him here afterwards. He needed him to know that he finally understood, that he could be flexible in their relationship without sacrificing his own need for control. He’d enjoyed it when Greg had taken him; he wanted Sherlock to take him now.

When Sherlock opened him up, he’d writhed on his fingers, desperate for his cock, but he wanted to push himself as far as he could before he gave in.

This second round of blows was harsher. He’d be sore tomorrow, but he didn’t care. He pushed his arse higher in the air and the force of the strokes increased. He half-moaned, half-nodded his approval. When he started to pull away from the crop, when it started to become too much, he said, “yellow”. This wasn’t the time for establishing his upper limits on pain. As requested, Sherlock gave him a harder blow, and he took two of them, enjoying them, riding them out before saying, “red”.

It took more concentration than he’d expected to turn over onto his back. In some ways, he wanted to lie there forever and bask in the glow. But in a much more immediate way, he wanted Sherlock’s cock inside him.

“You okay?” Sherlock said, looking down at him, his face full of love and concern as he touched Mycroft’s cheek.

“Never better.” Mycroft had simply flipped over, and his arse was still at the edge of the bed, in the perfect position for Sherlock. He wrapped one leg around his waist and pulled him closer. “You?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Then be so kind as to fuck me senseless.” He couldn’t help but notice the slurring of his words.

“I think you’re already a bit senseless.”

“Then senseless…-er.”

Sherlock laughed as he slicked up his cock. “I rest my case.”

Mycroft hooked his arms under his knees and pulled them back, spreading his cheeks and putting his arse on full display.

Sherlock’s eyes went wide, and he paused to run a slick finger across his hole, circling it, as if he didn’t quite expect this all to be real.

“This wasn’t what we agreed on,” Mycroft said, a smile on his lips.

It seemed to shake him out of his disbelief and a look of hunger replaced the dazed expression. “You’re right.” He stepped forward and nudged the tip of his cock against his stretched hole.

Mycroft shifted, pressing against it but unable to find the leverage to do more. “Come on,” he hissed.

Sherlock — finally — took him at his word, and buried his cock to the hilt in one strong push.

Mycroft’s face went slack with bliss as he started pounding into him. So many sensations: the fullness, the drag-slide of his brother’s cock against his hole, the feel of Sherlock’s balls against his skin each time he slammed back into him, his own cock, bouncing against his stomach, begging for attention it wouldn’t get. No, this orgasm was Sherlock’s to give him.

When Sherlock grabbed his cheeks and hoisted him higher, the next thrust glanced across his prostate, and Mycroft cried out. Sherlock gave him a wicked grin. Another thrust hit the same spot, and he struggled to catch his breath.

“You like that?”

He nodded, and Sherlock pulled out. Mycroft keened.

“I need more leverage,” he said. “Move up the bed.”

Once they were both there, Sherlock knelt between his legs. Mycroft hooked his arm behind his knee and pulled it back towards his chest, letting his other leg fall wide.

Sherlock grinned down at him and lined up his cock. When he pushed in, it slid home with no resistance, even better in this position than the last. Once again, he set a steady pace before interspersing his thrusts with ones he knew would hit his prostate, never regularly enough to be predictable.

Never let it be said Sherlock was boring.

“God, I’ve wanted this,” he said, still pounding into him. “Never thought you’d let me.”

“Make me come and you can do it again,” Mycroft said, gasping out the sentence in between strokes.

Sherlock hoisted his arse higher. Now each thrust slid over his prostate and lit up a shower of sparks across his brain. He didn’t last very long in the new position. His words devolved into a porn film soundtrack of “Yes — oh — there — yes — yes”, and a full-on moan as he climaxed, cock pulsing thick trails of semen onto his stomach.

Sherlock wasn’t quite there, and fucked him hard through his orgasm. It was just starting to be too much when he came, emptying his load deep inside Mycroft’s arse.

He pulled out and looked up at Mycroft. “You okay?”

He smiled in response.

Sherlock moved up the bed so he was lying on his side next to him. He reached down with one finger and toyed with Mycroft’s arse, still slick with lube and a few drops of come. “Want me to clean this up?” he said, his innuendo-heavy voice making it obvious he meant to do it with his tongue, not a flannel.

Mycroft kissed him instead, and pulled him closer.


	37. A New Life (Plot Outline)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is in plot outline form. Please see the Author's Note at the beginning of the work for details.

After their relationship’s upheaval and subsequent strengthening, they come to a joint decision that Sherlock will stop working as an amenity. They go back to hosting just couples. Mycroft worries as much about his own weakness (he did fall for Greg, after all), as he does Sherlock’s.

Sherlock is reasonably content. The new aspects to his relationship are more emotionally gratifying than the job was, and now that Mycroft has changed his stance on pain and bottoming, their sex life is more varied and frequent.

However, Mycroft still ignores his own needs for submission. Sherlock lets it slide for a few months, hoping the incident with Greg will prompt some sort of discussion, but he seems to have buried it again. He raises the topic and suggests Mycroft phone Greg. Mycroft asks him if he’s lost his mind.

Sherlock, ever the pragmatist, points out that Greg has something Mycroft needs. He feels more secure that Mycroft won’t leave, now that he can give him everything he wants in the pain and sex departments. (And, Sherlock being Sherlock, he has a pretty high opinion of himself as to what he can provide.)

Mycroft still won’t call Greg, so Sherlock phones him instead. He tells him that they’ve worked out their relationship, and that he’s no longer working for the B&B, but that Mycroft still needs to find someone to sub for. Greg is very reluctant to get involved, still horrified over causing problems in the first place. That said, he still has some feelings for Mycroft, and certainly a fondness for his time with both of them (before it all went pear-shaped).

Conflicted, he refuses. When pressed on it, he confesses he’s not sure he could keep it purely ‘professional’ with Mycroft, and he doesn’t want to ruin the brothers’ relationship. Sherlock says he appreciates his candour and doesn’t press the issue.

Sherlock goes back to his brother and says Greg would like Mycroft to sub for him, and suggests he pursue it. He neglects to mention that Greg said he didn’t want to get involved.

Mycroft contacts Greg, who immediately tells him everything he’d told Sherlock. Mycroft is embarrassed but also not surprised, because of course this is the sort of thing Sherlock would pull. They end up chatting anyway. They both enjoy the phone call and agree to talk again.

After a few more phone calls, Mycroft hesitantly asks him to visit — just as a friend, if that’s what he’d like. Greg says he’s willing to try that but suspects ‘just friends’ is going to be difficult, given the surroundings of the B&B, and the lack of things to do. He asks if they’d like to visit London instead.

They combine their trip to London with a visit to see David. He still works as a professional Dom, but he’s gone into business on the side with his friend who makes the bondage furniture. They’re hoping to make a go of it so David can have a ‘legitimate’ business and not have to skirt the law. Sherlock, being Sherlock, has lots of feedback about their new furniture designs (blunt, but useful). David sarcastically suggests that he should help design the next one. They all decide this isn’t a bad idea.

After seeing David, they go and spend the evening with Greg at his flat. He makes them dinner, and everything is pleasant but very chaste. They talk about his work at the Met. Mycroft and Sherlock call it a night and stay at a hotel, which had always been the plan. They meet up with Greg again and go out for brunch the next day — which had not been the plan, but the evening had gone well enough to merit it. The spark of attraction is still there between Greg and Mycroft, but no one is freaking out about it.

Brunch is nice, but no one talks about the elephant in the room, not until Sherlock brings it up after they’re done eating. “So, are we going to do this or not?” Mycroft facepalms (and then apologises). The restaurant is not the place for this discussion, so they go back to Greg’s.

They have a very detailed conversation about who has what needs, where they are getting them met, and how. Sherlock says that although he’s happy subbing for Mycroft, he sort of misses working as an amenity and that he’d enjoy subbing for Greg again. This is the first Mycroft has heard about it, which disappoints him, but they can discuss that later. Mycroft admits that he needs to sub for someone, and that being able to combine the submission and the pain components would be nice every now and then, even though it’s not necessary all the time.

This is all very well, but they’re treating this interaction like it’s a transaction with a professional Dom. Greg asks them if there’s anything they want from this that they wouldn’t be able to get from someone like David. Sherlock says, “I would have thought that was obvious, but are you willing to get emotionally involved?”

Greg is willing, with the understanding that he’ll leave if any of them starts having a problem with the arrangement. Sherlock is predictably enthusiastic. Mycroft, cautiously so. Greg asks if they want to stay instead of going back to Devon that night.

Sherlock is thrilled and wants to leap right into sex. Mycroft wants to take things more slowly. They have dinner and watch a film on the sofa, but Sherlock is fidgety. Greg tells him to go and get them more drinks from the kitchen. While he does, he checks with Mycroft to see if he’d have a problem with him dominating Sherlock a bit to calm him down. When he comes back, Greg orders him to his knees and has him suck them both off. He sits at their feet for the rest of the film, happy and content to lean against their legs.

Later, sharing a bed, Mycroft works up the nerve to tell Greg he’d very much like to be the one on his knees next time. Greg is only human and says, “Then kneel on the floor and show me what you can do with that mouth.” Sherlock watches enthusiastically. After having Mycroft suck him off, he orders them to finish themselves off while he watches. Sherlock is gleeful to have another Dom again, and Mycroft is so turned on he can barely stand it.

The next day, they’re faced with the more mundane question of logistics. Torquay is almost four hours from London, and not well located for frequent trips. All three of them agree that they’d like to pursue … something … but not a primary relationship for any of them. (Greg is not involved in another relationship which makes it slightly less complicated.)

They work it out so that he comes down to visit a couple times a month; he works hours that allow him to be flexible with his days off. Sherlock is also spending time in London working with David at the furniture company. Mycroft travels with him and they stay with Greg.

Mycroft learns to distinguish between “I’m madly in love with this person” and “I desperately want to sub for this person”, something he’d not grasped during their first time with Greg. He’d figured this out — in intellectual terms — after the incident with Sherlock, but he’s very aware of it as they embark on this new relationship. What he and Sherlock have must be preserved at all costs, and Greg understands that.

Sherlock ends up being a key part of the custom erotic furniture and toy business. His work, both in London and remotely from Torquay, keeps him busier than he had been when he worked as an amenity. With Mycroft’s agreement (and to Sherlock’s delight), David uses and ‘abuses’ him regularly as a test subject.

At one point they consider branching out into custom silicone toys. Ultimately they don’t pursue it, but a prototype cast from Sherlock’s cock is picked up by a major high-end toy manufacturer, and they make a killing in likeness royalties. It makes Sherlock crazy that he can’t talk about it with everyone he meets.

The design business (and toy revenue) does so well that they decide to close the Torquay Arms. It had never been a money-making concern — more of a personal project. They turn the main B&B play-space into their personal bedroom suite and convert their old bedroom into an additional office, which Sherlock uses for the design firm. They continue to keep the ‘extra’ bedroom as a cover story for nosey visitors who expect brothers to have separate bedrooms.

Mycroft joins the design firm as its legal advisor. He doesn’t miss his interactions with the public. Truth be told, he was never much of a people person. Sherlock gets to model half-naked with bondage equipment for their catalogue — which is perfect for him, because he gets to show off but doesn’t have to actually interact with anyone.

In the bedroom, Sherlock still subs for Mycroft, but now it’s just as likely to be Mycroft bent over the padded sawhorse as it is Sherlock, especially if there’s a crop involved; Sherlock’s as skilled with it as any Dom. When they’re with Greg, Mycroft gets to indulge his switch tendencies, and their relationship with him has developed into a ‘very fond friends with benefits’ situation.

Some days, Mycroft and Sherlock go down to Anstey’s Cove and have a picnic lunch, and look back in amazement at how — despite all the guilt and pain and repression they’ve had in their lives — they’ve ended up together. Happy.

And then they go and have sex in one of the caves.

❦

**Author's Note:**

> If you're looking for me on tumblr, I'm at [chasingriversong](http://chasingriversong.tumblr.com).


End file.
